


What Doesn't Kill You

by hanschen



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanschen/pseuds/hanschen
Summary: Vladislav’s hypnotism is failing, Viago’s money has run out, Deacon hasn’t paid rent in decades, and no one even knows where the hell Nick is. There are bills to pay, and they can’t lose this house— not with everything else that's gone wrong lately. Luckily, Wellington has taken a bit of a turn toward the dark side, to our friends’ advantage. It's easy to get some cash when you're good at betting.It's also easy to win at fight club when you’re immortal.
Comments: 40
Kudos: 29





	1. Reorganizing

**Author's Note:**

> I literally have like four other unfinished fics I should be tending to but here I am anyway  
> This fic is probably going to get very violent so if you're going to be all sensitive about that please move along  
> I think it will be M/M eventually if you squint  
> but it's not really the point  
> or is it? I haven't even finished a storyboard yet  
> lmao get wrecked, fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon explores.

_You run your mouth  
_ _yo_ _ur tongue fell out_  
_It's right there on the ground_  
_But now, you'll never drown_  
_You can't, you got no mouth_  
_So it ain't all bad now_

_What doesn't kill you_  
_Makes you ugly_  
_Life gives you lemons_  
_At least it gave you something_

_So if I break my face, and I don't look so great_  
_My face is just my face_  
_I'm okay_

\- AJR, "Break My Face"

* * *

The evening of September 2nd, 2017 didn’t start out unusually. Still sleepy, his burgundy velvet robe hanging off his shoulder and his hair falling in his face, Vladislav emerged from his cave-like bedroom and ambled downstairs. He picked up the utility bill from the credenza, which was laid out conspicuously for him, diagonal across an otherwise straight pile of incoming mail. He ripped open the letter, leaving the torn envelope askew on the pile, and plopped down on the couch next to the landline, knocking the slipcover loose. Vladislav fiddled with the edge of it, revealing the old brown blood stains underneath as he called the first phone number he saw on the bill. After an excessive time on hold, he connected to a representative with a tone completely devoid of emotion. “This is Martin at Wellington Power and Light. How may I help you.”

“Yes, I need to pay a bill.”

“Can I get your account number.”

Vladislav repeated a long string of numbers from the sheet. When the robotic sounding young man responded with their address, Vladislav responded, “Yes… we’ve already paid the bill.”

“I thought you were calling to pay it.”

“Well… yes, but…” He lowered his voice another octave and pressed on his consonants—that usually did the trick. Just a bit of concentration. After all, he was still waking up. “There has been a missstake… wwwe paid the bill.”

The young man sighed deeply. “Sir, I don’t have any record of payment. Did you get a confirmation code or—”

“No, no… no confirmation… we, um, simply paid it.”

“When?”

“… The other day.”

“You should have gotten a confirmation email.”

Vladislav held the phone away for a second. This was annoying today. Why was it so annoying? Had the call center employees received some sort of resilience training? He cleared his throat and hissed into the phone, “When you look into your system, you will see we have paid the bill. There was a technical error. You have fixed it. We no longer owe any money.”

“Listen, dude, I’ve done I.T. too. There’s no bug in this part of the system. Maybe you’re thinking of a different company?” This last question showed a shadow of emotion. But it wasn’t the acquiescing apologetic tone Vladislav was used to.

He tried one more time, now feeling a strain in his neck muscles. “There is no existing bill. We paid for this month already. Apologize for your mistake and clear the charges from the system.”

“Dude, I’m not seeing anything… do you want me to go get my supervisor?”

Vladislav hung up the phone and tossed it on to the table with a clunk, then regretted the noise. No need for anyone to come in and see him post-strain. And since when did he strain to use a power anyway? Especially hypnosis? He rubbed his face, willing himself to finish waking up. He touched something wet. Even stranger—since when did he sweat?

He pulled his hand away from his face. Dark blood was on it. He touched his nose again. It was coming from his nose, a slow drip down his chin.

He jumped up, pushing his robe to his face. He looked down the hallway, making sure no one was around to catch this embarrassment. Surely everything would be fine soon—he would wake up some more, drink some blood, stimulate himself with some ancient erotica, and try the number again in a couple hours, when the hypnotism would be no problem. No reason for any of his flatmates to know about this little early evening failure.

But sure enough, when he turned back around, Viago was waiting, a handkerchief in his outstretched hand. In his other hand, a leather-bound checkbook. He waited a few seconds for Vladislav to take the handkerchief, too polite to make eye contact. “If you leave that robe in front of your bedroom door later, I’ll take it to the dry cleaners.”

When he finally snatched the handkerchief, Viago didn’t flinch, just reached for the phone and the bill. “I’ll give them a call later.”

Vladislav flopped into the chair and pushed the cloth into his face, refusing to look up at his flatmate. “While you’re at it, ask them why the fuck it went up this month.”

*-*-*-*-*-*

Viago still hadn’t learned how to type on the laptop faster than one letter at a time, and it was quite annoying that after finally typing “credit card application” on Google, he didn’t get any answers he liked. All these websites were talking about unfamiliar things—credit scores? APR? Balance transfers? With a pang in his stomach, he wished Stu were still around to explain this stuff. He remembered once Stu offered to set up some sort of online bill pay system for them. They should have taken him up on it. Viago sighed and got up, straightening out his paisley coat as he went into his study.

He hadn’t sorted through his old banking paperwork in years, but it was still in order. Still, all the organization in the world didn’t help when he realized a lot of these accounts and bonds were from banks no longer in existence. Had they transferred? Why didn’t he keep track of that? Was the Cold War really such a distraction?

He found hope in one document, the least yellowed of the bunch (but still tinged), the only one without water damage or rips. It was some sort of investment paperwork, but as soon as he finished looking it over, he had a vague memory of going to a bank sometime in the nineties and exchanging it for cash—they needed new coffins at the time, after a hundred years of use, and far too many splinters (Vladislav had no problem letting his immortal skin regenerate around a splinter, but Viago hated the rough texture this tended to make in his hands).

This was worrisome. He sifted through the oldest of the documents. Maybe just the papers themselves were old enough to be worth something. When he pulled the oldest browned parchment out, he sneezed from the mildew and dust.

From the doorway, Deacon said, “When you sneeze, it sounds like I imagine a ferret would.”

Viago sighed. He was in no mood for Deacon. He pushed himself up off the floor. “I’ll take that as a compliment, somehow.”

“Do ferrets sneeze?”

“A simple ‘curse you’ would do for now, Deacon. I’m a little busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Reorganizing.”

“No, really, what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why would you reorganize papers that I know you spend your whole boring life keeping organized already?”

“Alright, goodbye, Deacon.” He walked over to Deacon and guided him out of the study, hands on his shoulder.

“I’m just wondering!” Deacon resisted, pushing his whole little body against Viago’s hands. “Vladislav won’t talk to me either. What are you two planning?”

“Maybe we are both just doing a little autumn cleaning and you should leave us alone to do that.”

“Maybe I can help! You don’t know!”

Viago wanted to reply that Deacon was the least helpful cleaner in the undead world, but he remembered the last time they argued about cleaning, a couple months prior, it went poorly. It started out with Viago pointing out that Deacon left a trail of congealing blood on the floor from a ripped trash bag he took out (it was overflowing, since that chore was months overdue). It ended with Deacon throwing an antique china plate from 1860 at him, and Viago hurling a crystal decanter back. Viago was in no mood to lose dishware today… they were in no place to buy more. So he stopped pushing Deacon and said, “If you want to help out, maybe you can put something out in the trap.”

To this, Deacon scoffed and writhed away from Viago’s gentle hand. “That useless bullshit again? Why don’t you just pour blood down the drain?”

“It’s not useless! It’s worked before.”

“It didn’t WORK, he just came and took the blood and ran.”

“Well, maybe you can think of something to put out besides blood. Something to get him to stay a bit longer. Just long enough so I can talk to him, perhaps—”

“Like what? Trash? Sounds like fair trade to me. Trash for trash.”

“Deacon, I don’t want to fight with you,” Viago put on hand on his forehead and one on the door. “If you don’t want to help get Nick back, that’s fine. Just find some way to occupy yourself.” And with that, he shut the door. He waited until he heard Deacon shuffle away, muttering something under his breath about garbage and teenagers, and went to sit by his papers again. Viago didn’t bother to look anything else up. He just carefully refiled everything away.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Deacon sat in silence in the cool fall air. It was a little too cool, actually, and he was curled up in a little ball, bringing his knees inside his moth-eaten sweater. But he wasn’t about to go back inside and be heard by Vladislav or Viago. Then they would ask what he was doing sitting outside, and he’d have to admit that he was where he usually was for the past few nights—staring at the trap they set in the backyard. Staring at a little mason jar of blood in the center, with a tightly fastened lid and a label with a date on it, in Viago’s neat cursive. Staring at the patch of grass where they verbally shamed Nick just three years ago. Staring at nothing and no one, basically.

He was also a little mad at the other two. They hadn’t even noticed he had been gone for the past few nights. Not that he was _gone_ gone, like Nick, but just that he was sitting outside, by himself. He pulled himself tighter inside his sweater, his boots catching on the bottom hem. Why hadn’t Viago told him to bring a coat or something? Not that he would do that, but it would have been nice to hear the suggestion.

“I bet ferrets do sneeze…” Deacon said to himself. “But you didn’t bother to ask…”

Besides the fact that it was cold, sitting outside, waiting for that fucking dick to come steal their private blood supply was also _boring._ Everything was so quiet and boring lately. Deacon missed nights out on the town, trying to find a club to let them in. He missed archery practice with Vladislav and Viago’s desperate attempts to teach Deacon the flute. He missed trying to mix and match outfits, then sketch them up for the others within a few minutes. He even missed bickering with Nick about what they should watch on TV during quiet nights in.

He wasn’t as dumb as the other two thought; he knew the reason they had been distant was because there were money troubles. Viago used to talk about getting new wallpaper for every room in the house, but now he just quietly spent time every week pasting up the curling edges of what they already had. Deacon didn’t have a solution to this because his only real skill was selling wares, and he hadn’t done that in almost two hundred years, and he didn’t have any wares.

But there was one thing he could do, and at least it would get his blood pumping, in a strictly metaphorical sense.

He picked up the mason jar, careful not to set off the rest of the trap Vladislav had painstakingly laid out months prior, and set off down the path in front of their house toward the bus stop.

He got on the bus, vaguely aware of what he must have looked like—a knit sweater, leather pants, leather boots, a jar of blood in his hand—and decided that it was a cool look he should be proud of. When the bus driver said, “'Scuse me, your fare?” Deacon didn’t stop walking past him, just looked him in the eye and snarled, “This bus costs nothing for the rest of the night.”

The bus driver nodded as Deacon went to the back of the otherwise empty bus. He also nodded to a group of young men who came on after him.

Deacon slouched in his seat, content to glare out the window, somewhat annoyed at the amount of noise the young men were making. He didn’t pay attention until one of them said, “Thanks for getting us a free ride, man. That was awesome!” Deacon didn't respond, so the guy continued, “Hey, dude. I’m talking to you. Hey!”

Deacon wanted to snarl, but decided it was just a touch early in the night for questions about his fangs, so he just kept his eyes on the window. “What.”

“Is that blood in that thing?”

One of his friends said, “It’s not blood, Frank. Why would he have blood on a bus?”

“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t he? Maybe that’s how they do it in New Zealand.”

Now Deacon could hear their American accents. He looked at them. The guy addressing him was wild-eyed, with a deep undercut and tattoos all up and down his arms. He couldn’t have been any taller than Deacon. Decidedly not a threat. Deacon sat up straight. “Maybe it is blood. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing, bro. That’s fucking cool. Why do you have blood?”

“Maybe I drink it.”

“Bullshit!”

“Maybe vampires are real out here,” said one of the other men, a bleached blonde guy, looking a little too excited at the thought.

“Maybe they are,” Deacon said, practically able to hear Vladislav scolding him in the back of his head for calling unnecessary attention to himself. But hey, it was Vladislav who chose to stay behind and be boring and stressed. No point in listening to him.

“Yeah, right. Lemme see.” When Deacon handed over the jar, Frank wasted no time opening it and smelling it. “DUDE! This totally smells like blood!” He passed it around the circle. They all sniffed it, taking turns recoiling and saying word “Bro” many times.

When the jar eventually made its way back to Deacon, he tucked it under his arm protectively. The young Americans were whispering amongst each other and looking back to Deacon every few seconds.

The guy with bleached blonde hair and smudged eyeliner around his eyes leaned over to speak to Deacon. “Hey, are you headed anywhere in particular?”

Deacon said “Yes,” decisively, though he knew in his dead heart he had no idea where Nick was, and no plan past wandering around trying to pick up that familiar scent.

“Oh, bummer. We’re headed to something pretty cool. We actually came all the way here from the U.S. just to go to this.”

“New Jersey,” Frank clarified.

_I didn’t ask,_ Deacon wanted to say, but he couldn't resist: “What is it you’re going to?”

“It’s kind of hard to describe.”

Deacon wanted know what it was so bad his white fingers itched. He knew it was the right decision to go out that night. “I could make a detour, if this party or whatever is so cool.”

“You definitely should. You could always leave if it’s not your scene. Something tells me it will be, though.” This last line, the leader directed at Deacon’s jar of blood.

Deacon nodded, crossing his arms and directing his stare back out the window. He cracked open the jar and chugged it, trying not to smile at their gasps and a couple “Oh, fuck, dude!”s. He kept his pale eyes on the window as much as he could for the rest of their bus ride. When he did look over again, the men were silent, now focused on each other, and Frank was tying bandages tightly around his wrists. Deacon heard another voice in the back of his head, this time Viago’s, saying he should get off at a different stop, to lose these guys as soon as possible.

But Viago wasn’t there, was he?


	2. Earned It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter for you far too soon. I now look forward to falling irreparably behind 
> 
> *** This chapter and more or less the rest of the fic come with a massive content warning for blood & violence so if you don't want to see it, peace be with you***

_I bet you will find someone who will love you like you deserve_  
_But tonight I'm the only one left and_  
_I'm bettin' it's a fact that you will never learn_  
_Once I sink my teeth_  
_Your skin's not so tough_  
_I'll leave a tiny cut_  
_There'll be a lot of blood_  
_But once you wipe it up_  
_You will feel better about our entire situation_

\- The Front Bottoms, "Peach"

* * *

As Deacon followed the strange American men down a series of streets in Wellington downtown, it occurred to him more and more that this was a bad idea. Every turn they made, there were fewer street lamps and even fewer people. This was an area that he didn’t usually go to with his flatmates. Not that they were scared to go to the wrong side of the tracks, and not that they hadn’t fed around these parts from time to time, just that it was more of a chore to feed off of prey that were used to defending themselves. “Where the hell are we going?” he asked their black-hoodied backs.

They didn’t turn around. The bleached blonde guy, who Deacon had heard referred to only as G. a couple times, called over his shoulder, “We made a couple circles just to lose anyone who might be following us.”

Deacon shook out a few shivers from his arms. He wasn’t used to feeling nervous and didn’t know why this was happening—he knew if things got bad he could just turn into a bat and fly away, or if he was feeling spritely, take on all these guys and bring home an all-the-Americans-you-can-eat buffet.

When they passed by what was once an attempt at an artisan coffee shop, now covered with graffiti and plywood, Deacon felt the shiver so hard he nearly convulsed. He tried to peek through a spot where two pieces of plywood were pulled away and hanging on by torn nails, but all he could see was darkness. He wondered why he was drawn to it, and why he had that feeling, even unable to see anything— _Someone is in there._

He used to be able to sense when other vampires were near, right at the beginning of being turned. Back in those days, it protected him, but it dulled after living with two other vampires for decades.

“Dude, hurry up!”

This would have to be addressed another time. Two storefronts down, the four Americans had stopped in front of another boarded up shop, an old music store—the only way to tell from outside was some half-peeled music note decals. G. was bent over, saying something into a rusted mailbox. Deacon walked up in time to hear the mailbox hiss out, in a muffled robotic voice, “Password?”

He responded, “Mildred Snitzer.”

A few seconds later, one giant piece of plywood that appeared to be doubling as a door opened up just enough for them all to be let in.

The men all pulled flashlights out of their pockets and walked through a wide dark space. Deacon tripped on a guitar, and it fell to the floor with an untuned clatter. No one even turned to acknowledge the noise. On the far wall, behind a dust-covered countertop that Deacon also bumped into, they reached a heavy metal door. When it creaked open, the noise of what sounded like a crowd of a hundred men erupted, and pale gray light leaked through.

They went down a metal staircase into what had to have once been a basement and storage area, but behind a wall of crumpled boxes, there was a wall of men, writhing, cheering, blocking whatever they were fixated on.

The Americans disappeared into the crowd, and Deacon couldn’t see over anyone. He heard wet noises of impact between simultaneous boos and affirmations—slaps, punches, someone gasping. Desperate to see what the hell was happening, Deacon squirmed behind the wall of men, trying to find an opening. He couldn’t find a space and was getting ready to start shoving, but after a shuffling few more feet to the side, his hip bumped a hard corner and he found himself bent over a desk. He was face to face with a pair of black ankle boots propped up on the desk.

A girl with wavy brown hair, a tight sweater, and tighter jeans didn’t even look up at him over her cell phone. She sat between the desk in front of her, a shelf full of envelopes to her side, and a dry erase board with a list of names and half hour time slots on it. “Walk much?”

He only had to look at her for a couple seconds to see was just his type (female with an active circulatory system). He stayed bent over the desk and raised one eyebrow in her direction. “What is a lady like you doing here with all these loud men?”

She still didn’t look up. “Making money, fool. What do you think?” She used one boot to nudge his elbows off the desk. “Make a bet or walk your weird pale hands away.”

Deacon looked up at the board. “Make a bet on what? One of these guys?”

Now she put her phone down on the desk with a clunk and sat up, rolling her eyes. Her face uncovered, Deacon could now see her blue eyes, a stripe of eyeliner, a prominent nose, pursed lips—again, since she had a face, Deacon was into it. “Are you new or something?”

She waited a few seconds, but he couldn’t come up with a good lie in time, so she continued, “God, where do you all come from? Why do you all want to get punched in the face so bad? Is masculinity not enough of a prison without a manually deviated septum?” She waited another three seconds, in which Deacon was unable to figure out what a deviated septum was. She rolled her eyes again and pointed to the 3:00am time slot. “We are here. See those names? Bobby and Ray? That’s who’s up right now. Do you want their deets?”

“Their what?”

“Their deets. Stats. Relevant info. Ya feel me? Ray—six feet, one-fifty, seventh time here. Bobby—five-nine, one-forty-two, veteran. Ray’s got a mohawk if you want to go check it out. But it’s almost three-fifteen and you have to get your money in before the halfway point.

From the middle of the crowd, there was a loud slam, and the cheering reached a climax. The girl behind the desk glanced over toward the noise, then grabbed her phone and looked at a video. “Never mind. You can’t bet on them. Want to bet on the next?” She didn’t pay attention to him, busy taking out a stack of small manila envelopes from a desk drawer and a stack of cash the size of her head.

Did he bring money? He felt around his pants. He didn’t bring a wallet at all. He didn’t even know where it was. “I don’t have money.”

“Well, I don’t do credit cards, friendo,” Now she was half-yelling as a frenzy of at least twenty men started crowding around them. She barely shot a glance at any of the men she handed envelopes of cash to. “We don’t have Square here.” When people started trying to hand her handfuls of rumpled bills, she just held one hand up and the crowd was silenced. “Bets open up ten minutes before. I’ve said it eight thousand times. Everyone go hydrate or something.” The men slowly dispersed and she was able to address Deacon again. “So what, you want to get on the roster? I’m about four rounds deep and we close up at five A.M.. You can be a backup if you want.”

“Wait, Gina, he wants to fight?” G. appeared next to Deacon. “He can have my slot against Frank.” He smiled at Deacon like he just offered a round of drinks.

She furrowed her brow, but turned around to redo the names. G. was up next. “Sure about that? No more open slots tonight.”

“That’s fine. We’ll be back next week. We got an apartment so we can be here every week now.”

“Ugh!” she said. “Get a hobby.” When G. started pulling Deacon into the crowd, she called out, “Hold up, hold up. He needs to hear the rules.”

“I got him!”

“No, you don’t. He’ll be up there in two minutes.” She spoke with a note of finality, and G. sighed.

“Well, okay. Here, how about—Who do you want to bet on, dude?”

Deacon snorted. “Myself.”

G. pulled a folded twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to Gina. “That’s for him, on me.” He patted Deacon on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, bud!” and walked away.

Gina watched him walk away with crossed arms. When he was across the room with his American friends, she leaned over the desk. “What’s your name?”

“Deacon. Deacon Brucke. And your name is Gina? That’s nice, that’s very… Italian or something I don’t know.”

“I’m married, friendo.” But she did give her hair a little flip before continuing. “Listen. Don’t let these testosterone mutants pressure you. They don’t know shit about anything. You can get out of this now and save yourself the time and the black eye tonight, and probably a fuck ton of money and traumatic brain injury down the road. If you’re mad at the world, you can take up kickboxing or something.”

“I’m not mad at the world,” he said, crossing his arms to mirror her. “And I don’t take orders from anyone.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah right. Well, if you’re sure…” She held up her fingers as she counted down the following rules: “Number one, no weapons. Periodt. If it’s not on your body, it’s a weapon. Prosthetics need to be cleared ahead of time. Two, you get a half hour max. We have a tight sched. If it’s more than half an hour, I’m coming in and picking a winner. Spoiler alert: it’s whoever I think is cutest.” She paused to scan his body. “Three, a knockout’s all you need. Keep going and you’re kicked out. No returns. No exceptions. I have enough problems. Don’t need a corpse too. Four, you can bring your friends. But if any cops come knocking on our door and trace it back to you…” Just a shadow of a smile crossed her face. “I mean, I.D.K., how many guys would you say are here tonight?”

He glanced at the crowd, which was slowly but surely starting to circle back around the desk. “Twenty?”

“Holy fuck. Who taught you to count? It’s more like forty.” Now her smile spread, showing her molars. “I’m just sayin’. Forty cavemen versus one snitch. Not great betting odds. Not. Great.” She glanced at her phone. “You better head to the center. P.S., I’ve got a camera on there and a gun in my shoe, so if anyone tries anything weird on you, I’m coming after them.” She turned away from him and addressed the first in a line of men who were so excited the whole line seemed to be vibrating. “Good luck, D.B.”

“I don’t need it,” he said and walked off. The last look he saw from her was one of vague concern. He didn’t need concerned looks—he got those from his flatmates quite enough. As he walked toward a familiar face in the center of the room, he decided to make it his temporary mission to show Gina she had nothing to be concerned about.

Frank was standing in the center of a rough circle drawn in blue chalk on the gray cement floor, bouncing on his feet. One foot of the circle’s edge was smudged away with blood. Flourescent lights flickered above them. Deacon was a little surprised—this was pretty simplistic for people who were traveling all the way from the United States. He could have just made this in the backyard, if Viago were to ever allow such a thing.

People were crowding back around, and truthfully, it felt a little claustrophobic. Deacon looked around for an opening, to see if Gina was watching him. But honestly, even if there had been an opening, Deacon wasn’t entirely sure which direction he came from. Wherever he looked, there were just wild eyes of angry men of all shapes and sizes.

A mechanical sounding bell, like it was from a computer, rang out from speakers in the corner of the room. It echoed over the concrete floor and walls and triggered a loud cheer of no words in particular, just hungry, wild syllables.

“So what, now we just start?” Deacon asked. Frank didn’t answer, busy crouching into some sort of jumpy fighting stance with one leg behind him and one arm up in front of his face. Maybe Frank didn’t hear him over the crowd. “I SAID ARE WE STARTING—”

Frank jumped forward and punched him in the center of the face.

“WHAT!! FUCK YOU!”

Then Frank made a move with his fist like he was about to punch, but his leg shot out and he kneed Deacon in the stomach.

It hurt, but he popped back upright and hissed, “You tricked me! Fuck you again!”

Frank doubled back, looking a little confused. Among the crowd noises, Deacon also heard other mutters in questioning tones. Frank approached again. That little hopping walk he was doing was annoying the shit out of Deacon. And it was really distracting. He punched him in the side of the head. Deacon was going to ask “what the fuck” again, but when he looked up, the heel of Frank’s palm hit him in the nose. He saw stars, but shook them out. _This little tattoo bunny rabbit dickhead!_

His nose throbbed and felt clogged, so he reached up to check it out. It was kind of further to the left than he remembered. He pushed it back toward the center with a wet click, seeing a few more stars shoot past, but just shook them out again. Someone behind him in the crowd went, “Fucking ew, dude.”

Frank approached and Deacon spat a mouthful of blood at him. Frank grunted, rubbing it off his face, then ran full speed and jumped on top of him. They fell to the floor in a pile of writhing limbs.

Deacon lost count of how many punches landed. It hurt like hell. Every punch throbbed. His brain felt a little liquid. And at some point, around ten or twenty punches, he may have blacked out for a few seconds. But not fully. Because he heard a woman’s voice, Gina’s, calling over the crowd. “Alright alright! Back off him, you little troll!”

That was all the motivation he needed. He shook his head out again. He felt his blood scatter in a fine spray. The crowd gasped. He opened his eyes. Droplets of blood got in them. He rubbed the blood out of his eyes and looked up at his opponent. Frank was looking at him like he just grew another head entirely.

Deacon laughed and pushed his aching skull against the floor, then reeled up and connected their foreheads. _CRACK._ Instantly, Frank flopped backwards.

Deacon laughed, then coughed a bit, swallowing a mouthful of his own blood. He made a note to himself that this would really be easier if he could knock out his opponent before bleeding so much next time.

He repeated that thought in his head. Right. _Next time._ It made him smile. He pushed himself up off the floor. The circle of men were silent, watching him carefully. Someone said something under their breath about drugs. Deacon walked right up to Gina, her blue eyes wide. “Do I collect my money now?”

She scanned his face, landing on his nose. “Yeah, sure. You, uh, want a towel?”

“Whatever.”

She seemed to shiver a bit, then walked back toward the desk. The men around her parted like the Red Sea to let them through.

When they reached her desk, she counted out a huge wad of bills, stuffed it into an envelope, and handed it to him. She reached into her desk, pulled out a white hand towel, and handed it to him. She managed to do all of this without making eye contact.

Deacon glanced inside the envelope, right away seeing twenties, fifties, and hundred dollar bills. “Shit," he meant to have a poker face when he counted the money, but before he could stop himself, smiled and said again, "Shit!"

She laughed softly. “Not many people bet on the new guy so… you kinda cleaned up. Speaking of cleaning…” She sat back in her chair and tapped away on her phone, back in the same pose he first saw her in. “You might want to really use the hell out of that washcloth before you get on a bus or anything. You look a little _Carrie_ right now.”

“That’s all?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes wide again. Then she laughed, a nervous giggle. “Yeah… that’s all. You won. You got money. You want to stay to see more?”

“No, I’m good. Do you have a piece of paper and pen?”

She handed him an empty envelope and a pen. “We’re at 353 Piki Street.”

He waved this away, scrawled down his house’s landline phone number, and handed it to her. “I’ll be back. But just in case you miss me.”

“If I wasn’t married, I’d still have to get over how your nose is the size of a baseball right now,” but she pocketed the envelope anyway. “Have a good night, D.B.”

He nodded and threw the completely reddened washcloth over his shoulder, turning away from her toward the stairs. The line of men coming back to place more bets all stepped away from his path at the same time, like they were choreographed.

He looked between men in line to see where his Americans went. They were still over at the blue chalk ring, standing around Frank. Deacon was a little let down—what fun was it to gloat if people were too busy tending to their friend’s injuries to see? There was someone else standing a few feet behind them, just out of the fluorescent lights. Someone tall. In a familiar red hoodie. With familiar tattoos. Staring right at Deacon—a familiar challenge.

“NICK?” he shouted.

Just then, one of the men in line moved forward a foot and blocked his view. Deacon hissed, sending a spray of blood a foot in front of himself. The nearest five men recoiled and jumped away. As soon as they did, Nick was gone. He heard the noise of something flapping overhead.

He jumped up the stairs, two at a time. The room upstairs was still dark, and he tripped over the same damn guitar in the dark, now knocking over a keyboard too with a discordant series of thumps. He threw himself out the wood door, onto the street, just in time to see a shadow disappear into the coffee shop two doors down.

Deacon ran up to the coffee shop and ripped the wood off the door. When there was a pile of planks and splinters around him, he reached down to shake the front door, but there was a deadbolt lock on the handle.

He peered through the window. No sign of life inside. Just chairs stacked up, rotting ceiling tiles, dust and dirt everywhere. He must have been seeing things. With an angry grunt, he kicked the pile of wood, sending pieces scattering into the street.

He wanted to turn into a bat, fly straight up into the sky, and screech at the moon. But he worried about losing the thick envelope of cash in his pants. So he spent the next hour and a half stomping around the city, arms crossed over his stomach and his cash, getting lost on his way back to the bus stop, repeating to himself, _Next week. Gina at 353 Piki. Next week. Gina at 353 Piki. Next week. Gina at 363 Piki._

*-*-*-*

Just before Deacon grabbed the key under the mat to let himself back into the house, he quickly turned his sweater inside out and put it back on. Blood was all over the front of the sweater, even on the bottom hemline, where he didn’t remember getting any during the fight. Making this observation, he felt a small smile on his face—this was exciting, to be stained with blood from an injury you don’t remember making! There was a certain power to it, imagining someone he was just fighting walking around still bleeding, looking for ice packs, when Deacon himself was good as new. He didn’t even feel soreness in his nose since he stepped off the bus. He felt untouchable.

When he opened the door, Viago was already standing in the foyer, holding a phone between his ear and his shoulder, his arms full of a phonebook and at least ten different papers and envelopes. “There you are, Deacon! What are you doing out at this hour? It’s still close to summer, the sun is going to come up any minute now and—” To the phone, he continued, “Oh no, I am sorry, that wasn’t at you. That was at my silly flatmate who does not keep track of time.” (That last sentence was also half to Deacon.) “Now, here is a problem, when you say ‘proof of identity’, the passport is all I have… no, it expired in--” He struggled to flip open a dusty old passport he had nestled in his papers. “1942. I let it lapse because at the time you see Germany was not really where anyone wanted to--… how long will that take? … is there anything faster? A month is a long time and I need money to--” He glanced up. “Deacon! How did you get blood in your hairline?” Someone spoke to him faster on the phone, and he started shuffling away from Deacon into his study. “No! Please don’t hang up yet! Sorry, he was just… we do costume parties here…” he kicked the door shut behind him.

At some point during the whole flustered paragraph, Vladislav had wandered in to see the fuss, leaning on the doorway. “You could have at least responded to his texts. He was like a wind-up toy in here, bumping into the walls, worried about you.”

“I am a grown adult,” Deacon said, rubbing to feel the drying blood in his hairline, then licking it off his palm.

Vladislav crept in closer to look over Deacon’s bloodstained head. “Adults can wonder about the whereabouts of other adults. Besides, you know his nerves are shot since Nick disappeared.”

“I have been with you for nearly a hundred years. Nick was here for three. I think it’s obvious who’s not going anywhere.”

“Just send a text saying where you are next time.”

“My phone died last week some time.”

Vladislav let out a small growl before saying, “Why do we pay a phone bill if you don’t keep the damned thing charged?”

Deacon laughed at this, plopping himself down on the couch, putting his boots up on it (after a quick glance toward the study to make sure the door was still shut). “My friend, you may not have to pay a cell phone bill ever again.” He reached in the front of his pants and pulled out the rumpled pile of his earnings.

Vladislav stared at it for a few seconds. “Deacon… what did you do?”

“I found a very lucrative job opportunity for myself.”

“Robbing people is not a job opportunity.”

“Who said I was robbing anyone?”

Vladislav ignored him and snatched the money. Deacon popped off the couch and jumped toward him. Vladislav just held out one outstretched hand in front of him. It was enough of a warning, and Deacon stood with crossed arms as Vladislav counted the money. “This is three hundred dollars. What kind of prey were you stealing from that has this much cash? A stripper?”

“I told you, it’s not from prey. I earned it.”

Vladislav snorted as he handed back the money. “You’re the stripper, then?”

“If I was a stripper, yes, I could make three hundred dollars no problem my first night, asshole. But no. Check this out—I got this from _fighting_.”

“So… robbery.”

“No! I didn’t fight people and take it from them! I fought people and then I got paid for fighting!”

Vladislav blinked his narrow dark eyes at Deacon a few times. Then he started walking to the study.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To tell Viago you need a new cell phone because you are desperate enough to fight people on the street for cash.”

“No no!” Deacon jumped between Vladislav and the door. “Listen, just come out with me next time I go out. I’ll show you what I mean.”

“I’m not enticed by the idea of watching you punch some humans until you get their money. Those days are behind me. Are you even drinking their blood? If not, what a waste.”

Deacon huffed and flopped back down on the couch. Why was Vladislav being such a dad? Didn’t he want to hear about the actual fights? “What if I told you I may have also found somewhere I think Nick is hiding in?”

Vladislav, on his way out, stopped in the doorway. Before he turned around, he said, “How do you know?”

“I saw him there. Then I ran out after him, and he went into this abandoned coffee place. I didn’t see him after that.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

 _No,_ he thought, but said, “Yes, I know those stupid neck tattoos anywhere.”

Vladislav’s eyes were piercing Deacon’s, unblinking, Still, Deacon stared back, even as his eyes started to feel warm and throb a bit. He wondered if maybe his head still had a little healing to do. Finally, Vladislav looked up toward the study door. “We need to tell Viago.”

“No. He won’t like this. He doesn’t belong there. And if we bring him to see Nick too soon, before we get to speak to him, he’ll scare Nick away with all his bitching. Let’s just do this by ourselves.”

“I can’t argue he might come on a little strong if he figures out where Nick is.” Vladislav’s voice lowered to a whisper. “But it’s not that simple, Deacon.”

“Yes it is! We can do go to this thing without him-- make some money, pretend we just robbed some rich human moron, find Nick, and bring him back! He’ll be so happy we found Nick he won’t ask any questions. Then he won’t nag us about committing crime or whatever, we have another flatmate to pay rent again, on top of the money we’re already about to have. It’s perfect.”

“I wouldn’t say perfect… you are assuming I’m interested in going out and doing whatever stupid activity this is.”

“Vladislav, you’re going to love it! It’s exhilarating; these dumb humans think they are soooo tough, and you get to knock them down a peg, and then you get MONEY FOR IT! This stupid fucking American I had today, I’d _pay money_ to punch him in his dumb punk head. Instead, I’m the one getting paid! What could be better?”

“There are Americans there to punch, huh?” Vladislav ran a hand through his hair, deep in thought. “When are you going out again?”

“Same day, next week.”

“This has to work fast, Deacon. We can’t keep this a secret too long. Viago is not stupid and we’ve known each other longer than we’ve known--…” He trailed off, thinking, “Anyone.”

“This isn’t forever. It’s just to pay the bills. For now. Until we figure out something else.”

“Same day, next week. Downstairs. We will leave quietly. If asked, say we are meeting some hookers. Do not bring this up until then.”

Before Deacon could answer, Viago poked his head out from the study. “You guys need to go to bed right now. The sun is rising as we speak.”

“And you?” Vladislav said.

“I’m on hold with this wretched credit union. I’ll teleport up when I’m done.” He turned to Deacon. “The trap was empty today and I know I put out a fresh jar last night. Did you see anything around it while you were out?”

Deacon stared into space for a good ten seconds before he said, “No. Nothing.”

“That was a very long pause that made it sound like you saw something.”

“I’m not. I saw nothing.” He forced his posture into a more casual slouch. “And I have been out there every night this week, watching the trap, by the way. So I would know.”

“What? I had no idea! You were wearing a coat, I hope.”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I am such a good friend.”

“Probably an animal got to it,” Vladislav offered. “Maybe we should give it a rest until it gets colder out.”

Deacon nodded. “Werewolf got it, maybe.”

“Those wasteful beasts! Jars are not free!” Viago shooed them away. “Now go. It’s bedtime!”

If Deacon had a heart rate, it probably would have picked up when he almost got caught lying so quickly. He trudged up the stairs after Vladislav, and his heart would have picked up for the second time that night when Viago called out after them, “Wait! Deacon! One more thing!”

Vladislav shot Deacon a warning glance over his shoulder, then continued upstairs.

Viago appeared behind Deacon on the staircase, two steps behind, their heights lining up perfectly. Deacon slowly turned to look at him, and found himself in a staring contest, in the dead silence of their dusty house. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a ray of dark pink sunlight creeping through a window at the bottom of the stairs.

Deacon had wondered for years if Viago might snap and just try to kill him, and yet, he couldn’t stop pushing his buttons. It was too much fun. Now, with Viago’s huge dark eyes peering into his soul, Deacon regretted every time he didn’t do those bullshit dishes.

And just when Deacon considered if he just get on with it and make the first violent move toward his throat, Viago licked his own thumb and rubbed it on the top of Deacon’s forehead. “Still all this blood. Maybe give your face a quick wash before bed, yah?” He rubbed for a few more seconds. “Okay, I have to finish this call. Good night!” He hopped down the steps and back into his study, leaving Deacon on the stairs, wondering if he had enough in his closet-room to keep himself occupied without having to leave for seven days.


	3. You won't like it if it answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viago investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time when I was like "I'm gonna fall behind" and then proceeded to upload 5+ pages of Viago's private headspace? Yikes on bikes! Where did this chapter even come from? I'm listening to too much harp music

_She may contain the urge to run away  
_ _But hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks_

_Muscle to muscle and toe to toe  
_ _The fear has gripped me but here I go  
_ _My heart sinks as I jump up  
_ _Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut_

_Please don't go, I'll eat you whole_  
_I love you so, I love you so, I love you so  
_

\- alt-J, “Breezeblocks”

* * *

Vladislav and Deacon have many wonderful traits as flatmates. Viago could fill a book about these positives. And he pretty much has! Multiple books! Since he took up journaling in around 2005, he frequently wrote about how strong their friendships had become, the way they occupied themselves together on long nights in an infinite life. And yeah, sure, about how sometimes Vladislav has a nasty tone of voice and Deacon was maybe the messiest person Viago’s met in three hundred and eighty-two years of existence. But also about how Vladislav listened patiently to every one of Viago’s stories, which he must have heard hundreds of times at this point, and how Deacon could knit anything Viago requested, happy to be of service.

But on September 9th 2017, he stared at a new page in his journal, blank except for one sentence:

_Do they think I’m an idiot?_

Obviously, they did, tiptoeing around him all week. If he even brought up going out for any reason, they made up some excuse, each one flimsier than the next. And you can bet that as soon as Viago figured out they were lying, he experimented each night with a new reason that they had to stutter an answer to. He may be above paper napkins, but he’s not above pettiness. So back on Monday, September 4th, at the dinner table, as Deacon knitted and Vladislav attempted to tune his guitar, Viago read from the newspaper, “Oh look! There’s a late night showing on Saturday of that _Freaks_ movie. I haven’t seen it since it was in theatres. We should all go!”

Vladislav only waited a second before replying, “Seen it a million times,” without looking up.

“I’ll just take Deacon then! I don’t remember the last time we did something, just the two of us.”

“No, that’s, um…” Deacon thought about it. “Gay.” It sounded like a word he just remembered from the tip of his tongue.

“Are you gay?” Viago asked.

“No!”

“Then why is it gay?”

“It’s, um, two men. On a date... -like outing.”

“Isn’t three together more gay?”

“No, because, well, we have been that way for years. And nothing’s happened. So obviously it works.”

Viago looked back down at the newspaper. “No, of course it hasn’t.” He had to be careful, too, realized. He didn't even really know why, he just suddenly felt that he and Vladislav avoided eye contact in that moment like repelling poles on a magnet. Still, since he couldn't put his finger on why, he couldn’t resist trying one more time. “Then you and Vladislav won’t be going out together anytime soon either, I’d assume.”

The knitting and tuning both stopped. It was dead silent until Deacon said, “Well, you know, gay people are cool now.” Viago didn’t bother addressing it, calling that conversation a narrow victory.

*-*-*-*

On Thursday, September 7th, Viago sat in the living room, sewing up a hole in the hip of Deacon’s pants. Deacon stood by him, with crossed arms, like a little kid waiting for their toy to be repaired. “Deacon, where do you get holes like this? Are you out and about playing sports these nights without us?”

“Um, kind of, yes.”

“Oh really? I’d love to come watch.”

“No, it’s not a club or anything official, it’s just… playing ball… somewheres.”

“You don’t remember where?”

“No.”

“You need to stop drinking blood from those drunk rugby players.”

Deacon stared up at the ceiling. With crossed arms and a slouching oversized sweater, he looked more little than usual, and Viago’s pettiness was suddenly overcome with worry. He handed the patched pants to Deacon, and with the other hand grabbed his forearm and pulled him close. Deacon resisted a little, but Viago leaned up toward from the chair and whispered, “Sports can get very dangerous. Even for vampires. I don’t know what sports you’re playing. I don’t know why you don’t want me to go to a game. I don’t know what you’re hiding, so whatever it is, you better be safe doing it. I can’t step in and help you if I don’t know where you are.”

“I don’t need help!” Deacon yanked his hand away, ripping a new hole in the crotch of the pants in the process. “Ah, fuck!”

Viago sighed and gestured for them back. Deacon practically threw them. He stood there again, arms crossed so tight it looked like it hurt, until Viago said, “Give me a few minutes alone to do it, if you won’t talk to me.”

When Deacon skulked off down the hall, he was staring intently at his little phone, which Viago knew had no text messages on it, and recognized as one of Deacon’s usual signs of avoidance. It was worrisome enough that it made threading the needle difficult and fixing the next hole twice as hard, and Viago hates inefficiency, so he decided to try being a little more direct the next time.

*-*-*-*

So the following day, Friday, September 8th, in the wee hours of the morning, Viago wandered upstairs. It had been thus far a quiet evening of occupying himself reading, dusting, and polishing silverware, as the other two had avoided him all night. He knocked on Vladislav’s door, expecting the usual wait-time, hearing the noises of some mysterious erotic activity being swept away before the door opened, but Vladislav was there to open it right away. Almost like he was the one waiting that time. “What?”

“Hi, Vladislav! Just wondering what you’re up to… I’m a little bored.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

Vladislav scanned his face. After a quiet moment, he seemed satisfied with whatever he was looking for, and opened his door just enough for Viago to slip inside.

As usual, Vladislav’s room was dark, musty, and had that tense feeling of things or creatures hiding, waiting. Realistically, he had probably just thrown a mess into a closet. There wasn’t much around—his coffin, open and waiting for his body; a trunk with the lid caught on a black silk blanket; a bookshelf overflowing with items of dark magic and antique trinkets from centuries past; a stool and a canvas in the center of the room.

Viago stopped to look at the bookshelf as Vladislav went back to sit at the canvas. “Will you let me buy you a new shelf one of these days? This wood is so warped.” Vladislav only needed to shoot him half a look for Viago to translate and say, “It’s not a waste! It’ll help you keep all this stuff organized.” He was trying to get a shrunken head to sit upright against a glass scepter-like object, but took his hand away when he realized it was a glass dildo. “We could get something with drawers maybe…”

“I’m telling you, don’t worry about it,” Vladislav pushed an old, stained paint brush around a jar of murky grayish blue paint. The only thing on his canvas was a monstrous pair of gray eyes with yellowed whites, opened wide in a reddish socket, and a sketched outline of a head.

“What are you painting?”

“I have a stark vision in my head of a man, a Russian czar, a once-powerful figure in his final years, cradling the body of his son after he has been dealt a mortal blow to the head. These eyes are supposed to represent the ultimate grief. And maybe… Guilt? I’d like the viewer to imagine how the royal is responsible. All we see is the aftermath of the violence. It’s meant to be a great mystery, and yet, the emotions are crystal clear.”

“Wow, that is very morbid and… familiar.”

“Familiar how?”

“I think that’s a painting already.”

“Eh?”

“Ivan the Terrible and His Son, I think it’s called?”

Vladislav looked into the painted eyes. “Maybe that’s why I had such a clear vision.” Unfazed by the possibility of plagiarism, he started painting broad gray strokes behind the head of his subject. “Viago, what else can I help you with?”

“If you’re in the middle of that, I won’t bother you.”

“No, it’s fine, I just can’t talk much if I start concentrating.”

Viago didn’t really know how to respond to that. He watched the brush strokes for a few seconds, a little caught up in how soothing the repetition was. “Is it fine if I watch for a while?”

When he nodded, Viago took a cushion from a pile of velvety pillows Vladislav had in the corner of the room, making the deliberate decision not to think too hard about where the pillows had been, and sat on it cross-legged a couple feet behind Vladislav. It bordered on meditation, watching his friend paint the background, but after a few minutes Viago realized Vladislav was painting the same shade of grey on the same couple feet of canvas. It was bending, too heavy and wet to stay straight.

“Hey Vladislav?”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“No.”

He said it with such certainty that Viago finally thought maybe he wasn’t being lied to, and he was content and a bit relieved to look at the painting for another moment, especially since after those brief words, Vladislav finally added some brown to his jar and started focusing on the outer portions of the canvas. He was so content that he didn’t hear what Vladislav heard the first time he said it. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“I said, is there anything YOU want to talk about?”

“Not anymore.”

Vladislav huffed in response, then ripped the page he was on off the canvas. He let it fall to the floor. He got up and went over to the bookshelf to get a prop, a vase filled with fake black roses. Before he even made it back to the canvas, Viago was already up on his feet and posing in front of the canvas. Vladislav handed him the vase. Viago tucked it into his arm like a baby. Vladislav sat back at the stool. “Stand very still.”

“I know,” Viago said. And he did.

*-*-*-*

Viago had a relatively relaxing night’s sleep in his coffin on Friday, compared to most nights even before that week, when he had been usually up for an hour or so, scratching at the interior of his coffin until the motion soothed him to sleep. This feeling didn’t last long, though.

After a few hours of reading and pasting up the wallpaper, he went into the kitchen and started filling up another jar with blood, until he heard the sounds of his flatmates in the foyer. When he went out to see them, Vladislav and Deacon were already up, lacing up boots and putting on coats. They froze when he entered the room. “You guys are going out?”

Deacon focused on his boot lace like it held the meaning of life, and Vladislav just said, “Just for some fresh air.”

“I see. On your way out, could you put this in the trap?”

“No, I told you, it’s not going to—” Deacon started, but was interrupted when Vladislav put a hand on his shoulder. He held the other out to take it. “Yes.”

“Stay safe, yah?”

Vladislav nodded to him once and started going out. As they left, Viago heard Deacon whisper, “Can I drink that or are you actually going to put it out?”

The door slammed shut, and Viago looked at his watch. He thought about how when they realized he let them go without any questions, they looked so relieved that as their postures shifted dramatically, he could hear their coats move. _I should really talk to them about slouching one of these days._ Also, _How cute_ , he thought, _that they really think the discussion is over_ , as he waited for the minute hand to pass once more. Then he turned out the lights in the kitchen, left the house, locked the door, and turned into a bat. He flew over the house and toward the bus, where he settled on the back of it, curling his wings around himself and tucking in for a nice ride into town.

*-*-*-*

At some point, following the other two in town became difficult, even from above. They kept going around corners and dark alleys and even doubled back a couple times, as if they were lost. They did stop. They really were being sneaky. Viago would be impressed, had he not been so worried and annoyed. He saw them peer in through a boarded up shop of some kind, then in just the time it took Viago to lower himself toward the ground and land perfectly on both feet in a neat black _Poof!_ , they were gone.

He crossed the street and peered inside where they just were standing. There wasn’t much to see between two pieces of old wood, but he could see the remnants of a café that was too hip to make it in that section of Wellington. He couldn’t see any movement inside, but did feel inexplicably drawn to it. He wondered what it was—were his friends inside, or was it because he just spotted a nice little latte machine on the counter deep inside that looked perfectly intact? That would come in handy for the upcoming winter. They stole plastic packs of blood from the hospital on occasion, and a nice steaming and frothing would make them seem more appealing, Viago figured.

Between picturing a nice blood latte and the curiosity about what the hell Deacon and Vladislav were doing inside that place, he didn’t take a second thought before teleporting himself inside just behind the door. He wasn’t in for three seconds before he sneezed. There was a fluttering and a small screech, and the clatter of bat wings against cups and pans.

“Oh!” Viago walked toward the counter. “Are you a friend or just a bat?”

The bat crawled around on the floor, appearing to try to cover its face with a wing.

“Oh wow, your wing doesn’t look so good. And you’re kind of skinny for a bat! Are you sick, little one?”

It screeched at him in response.

“That’s a little rude, I was trying to help, but alright then. I’ll leave you alone.”

It crawled toward a cabinet door on the counter and appeared to be trying to open it (hard to do with weak wing hands and small teeth).

“Here, let me get that for you.”

Viago opened the cabinet door and the bat half-jumped, half-flopped inside.

“You are really not looking so well, bat- _chen_. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?”

The bat curled up in the corner of the cabinet. Viago shut the cabinet door softly behind him, wishing him a restful sleep. He got up and went toward the latte machine, thinking about what a poor little guy the bat was, but if it didn’t _want_ to be helped, then there was nothing he could do (a running theme of his afterlife these days, it seemed). As he started to pull the machine out, a few things clattered to the countertop from behind it—empty, stained mason jars. Whoever was in here last must have been just throwing things behind it. “ _Widerlich!”_ he said out loud to himself as he stopped moving the machine and started picking up the jars to stack them up against the wall.

Viago stopped when he saw the labels on them.

These were his jars.

He wrote those labels, the dates, when he jarred them. Even though he knew this already, able to recognize his own handwriting instantly after almost four hundred years of living with himself, he opened the lid on one just to be sure. Sure enough, it smelled like old blood.

He whipped around and reached one hand out toward the cabinet, preparing himself to rip the door open. He thought he felt a strong connection to this bat. And there were a lot of things he wanted to do—grab it and throw it against the wall (wouldn’t be its first time). Clutch it in his teeth and pull the wings off (a fine wall art that would make). And all that, just because it had caused him such worry for months.

So he just took a deep breath, crouched down, and opened the door slowly. The bat didn’t even hiss. Too weak. “Little bat friend. I think I know who you are. You might not want to tell me right now. I’m going out to get you a treat. You wait right here.” It looked up at him, in as much confusion as a pinched bat face could express, before he shut the cabinet door.

He pranced down the center of the deserted café, stopping at the front wall, teleporting himself outside as soon as he touched the locked door. He made his way toward the fluorescent lights of one of those grungy twenty-four-hour drugstores. And just a few steps toward it, he stopped. Wasn’t he on a mission?

That’s right, didn’t Vladislav and Deacon need some sort help? Hadn’t they wandered off somewhere to some sort of place that left Deacon with ripped pants and blood in his hair? Hadn’t they been trying to keep some sort of secret from him?

He huffed, shaking out nervous energy in his hands, reaching up to fix his cravat. This was quite the decision. Help two old friends who had done little to deserve it as of late, or help a recent friend who desperately needed it, _if_ that was indeed who he thought it was?

He looked up at the night sky. To the crescent moon, he said, “A little help would be nice?”

It didn’t say anything back. He didn’t expect it to. Whenever he talked to the moon, it just made things more complicated. Because the longer he stared at it, he always came back to the same old question he’d had since he had first been turned: if he couldn’t tolerate the sun, why could he tolerate the moon? It was just sunlight reflected off the moon’s surface. He kept meaning to look it up one day, but whenever he did, something more pressing came up.

The last time he talked to the moon, in a sad and desperate sleepless hour just as the sun was setting, Vladislav heard him and asked from his bedroom doorway what he was saying.

 _I was just wondering why we can tolerate moonlight but not sunlight,_ he said.

 _I wouldn’t ask that if I were you,_ Vladislav had responded.

_Why not?_

_You won’t like it if it answers._

At the time, Viago chalked up this pretentious, murky answer to one of Vladislav’s sonnet-writing phases, and forced himself to forget about it. Now it was back, and it just muddled his brain more than ever. It was a good point—what answer had he been expecting? Why did he ask questions if he knew no answer would satisfy him?

He made a mental note to journal about all of this once he got home, and took off towards the pharmacy, nodding once to the moon and wishing Deacon and Vladislav the best of luck in his head.


	4. What a predator does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladislav realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak German lmao help
> 
> If you know the Jojo Rabbit reference then I will draw one tarot card in your honor  
> If you don't, then.......... watch the movie idk

_I kissed your lips and I tasted blood_  
_I asked you what happened and you said there’d been a fight_  
_You said I've been fighting for your honor but you wouldn't understand_  
_I said hold on your honor I'll get ice for your hand_

_Gargle with peroxide_  
_A steak for your eye_  
_But I'm a vegetarian so it's a frozen pizza pie_  
_You tell me that you care and you never do lie_  
_And you fight for my honor but I just don't know why._

\- Regina Spektor, “Your Honor”

* * *

Vladislav half-wondered in the entire trip downtown if Deacon had gotten so bored with his afterlife that he was just pulling a massive prank. They certainly seemed to have gotten lost enough times. They hit a certain block for the third time, and Vladislav said, “Deacon… there are better ways I could be spending my night.”

Deacon was knocking on the mailbox of an abandoned coffee shop. He abandoned it and shot Vladislav a look. “Oh, you have so many plans? Painting blob monsters for eight hours? Playing grab-ass with our flatmate all night? Polishing silverware and doorknobs for him?”

Vladislav wanted to answer that actually, yes, all of those things sounded more useful than wandering around town, ignoring dozens of pieces of drunk, easy prey that passed by. Instead, he just kept watching Deacon as he crawled along the walls of the next couple stores, talking into mailboxes like a crazy person. They came upon a store that was the most boarded-up of all, but this time, when Deacon spoke into a mailbox, it responded through a tiny speaker, “Password?”

Deacon had to think about this one. “Oh, it’s, uh… hm.”

“Wrong.”

“I don’t remember any password. Can’t I just prove I was there somehow?”

“You’re an idiot,” Vladislav said.

“Accurate, but also not the password,” the mailbox speaker responded. Vladislav recognized the voice as vaguely female.

“You will see!” Deacon stuck his white finger in Vladislav’s face. “We are so close I can smell it!”

The mailbox speaker let out a deep sighing noise, filled with feedback. “D.B., I can tell it’s you. Stop smelling the building. I’ll let you in this once but then you need to get a memo book or something.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, waving his pale hands around to hurry it up. The voice sighed like she could see it. “I will do whatever.”

There was a small click noise from the plywood-covered door, and it creaked open. Deacon threw it open the rest of the way with abandon and jumped inside. He kicked it open again for Vladislav with his foot. The door cracked in protest.

Vladislav hesitated. “Once upon a time you were worried about discretion.”

“I feel no need here. Neither will you. Come inside.”

“Deacon, if this is some sort of trap…”

He put his hand to his dead heart and widened his eyes. They looked like they took up half his face. “Vladislav! Do you think after all these years I would just throw our friendship out the window? For what? A sick prank?”

“Perhaps.”

“Okay, well, I would, maybe, but not tonight. Why do you stall? Are you scared?”

Vladislav wanted to answer, _Yes, actually,_ since the last time Deacon was this excited about something, it was a succubus taking the shape of Marlene Dietrich that ended up biting his dick off. That was back in the nineties, and it fully grew back since then, so maybe Deacon had forgotten what happens when he lets himself get too excited and stops looking forward. Also, he couldn’t fight a funny feeling that they had been followed. He stepped toward the open door, but scanned the street and skies one last time before he stepped inside.

Deacon hopped up and down. “Hurry up!”

Vladislav was dying to scold him, but also couldn’t help feeling just a touch of admiration for his flatmate. “Does anything scare you these days, Deacon?”

He could see Deacon’s eyes thinking, flashing side to side in the moonlight, their last source of light in the dark, mildew-smelling room. “Not fond of spiders, I suppose.”

“I never knew that.”

“Little ones, whatever. The big hairy ones… no.”

“Interesting. What makes you think there are none in here?”

“Shut up already and follow me.”

Following Deacon in the dark meant tripping once over a piano and colliding noisily with some dusty keys, and somehow twice over what may have been the same harp. Eventually, they hit a back wall, and Deacon felt around for a door. When he threw it open, the first thing to hit them was a pale grayish-yellow light. The second was the noise of a crowd of boisterous men. And the third was the smell. Human sweat and blood and testosterone. Suddenly, Vlad was starving. It was distracting enough that he nearly tripped on the last step of the staircase.

Deacon huffed at this. “Watch your step! Don’t embarrass me.” He slowed his walk and rolled his shoulders back, adding a bit of swagger to his step, in addition to his normal amount of unearned confidence. He sidled up to a desk where a young woman was collecting money from a small handful of men in button-downs and ties. Deacon ignored them and said, “Gina, the love of my life!”

She was intent on her duties, but stopped counting long enough to say, “Well, wouldja look at that. It’s my strange, short friend with the indestructible face.” She filed the wad of cash in her hand away into a mysterious place under her desk and looked back up at Deacon, gesturing to shoo away the other men. “Oh and look! He brought Criss Angel.”

“Vladislav the Poker,” he introduced himself, coolly regarding her and the room. He didn’t like the energy of this place, no matter how enticing it smelled. Everyone seemed at once tense and overjoyed, grinning like monsters but looking over their shoulders like prey. The light fixtures seemed to flicker. Even the floor felt springier than the concrete it appeared to be.

“I see the both of you are rocking the vampire teeth tonight. Fashion over function. Respect…” She reached into a drawer and took out a box of mouth guards. “But, little word of advice, D.B. and Vladi. If those go into the meat of your mouth, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Want to buy a couple of these? I’ll give you the friends and family discount.”

“None of that. How soon can we get on the board?”

“Both of you?”

Deacon looked over his shoulder at Vladislav. A bit of a warning. “Yes. Both of us.”

“You guys together?”

“No! Why does everyone keep bringing up the gay stuff these days!”

“No, dummy. Though I would like to know who tops in this scenario, I just meant, do you want to fight each other?”

Deacon looked over his shoulder again, a bit longer this time. “Hm… no. Fun thought. Maybe another day.”

“Yeah? Fun?” Vladislav said. “I will shred you.”

“You don’t scare me,” Deacon said, with more than a little obvious fear in his eyes.

Gina collected money from the last human man in her line and shoved him away. She looked over the two vampires, squinting, then turned to a board behind her, plastered in random men’s names. “It would really help if you guys came in to talk schedule a little sooner than this. If you keep bringing me more overgrown goth kids, can you make sure one of them has a little My Chemical Romance watch or something?”

“If we can’t both go, just Vladislav then.”

“Excuse me?” Vladislav growled.

She tapped her phone to her chin as she scanned the board. “The next one has a free slot, but—”

“He will take that,” Deacon interrupted.

“Slow your roll, pal. That other guy is big as fuck. He’s open because no one else even comes close. I was waiting for like an NBA player or something to come in here.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Who cares? How big can he be?” Deacon turned to Vladislav. “How tall are you?”

“Six foot one,” Vladislav said.

“Six foot three if he stands up straight, I bet,” Deacon said.

“I will never understand men,” she said, mostly to herself, as she wrote in one slot toward the bottom: Vladislav vs. Luther. “You’re up after this one. D.B., did you tell him the rules?”

Deacon said “Yes.”

Vladislav said “No.”

“You are the worst recruiter! Good thing we don’t pay people for that.” She gestured for Vladislav to come closer. “No weapons, no fighting past a knockout, no telling the cops, and after half an hour I pick a winner.”

“That was shorter than my explanation,” Deacon said.

“He looks smarter than you.”

“Well…” Even Deacon himself couldn’t quite argue with that. “Okay. Can I bet on him now?”

She held out her hand, and Deacon plopped a very wrinkled manila envelope in her hand. “Ew. Is this the same envelope I gave you last week? Why is it kind of damp?”

“That should be the same amount of money you gave me last week. All on my friend here, please.”

“No answer to the dampness I see,” she grimaced and dropped the envelope into a desk drawer. “I’m not going to count that, so I’ll just trust you.”

“I will just trust you, too,”

He meant this to come out in a sexy tone, but it just induced an entirely different grimace in her. “Maybe you shouldn’t.” To Vladislav, she said, “Please don’t bring any more of your weird friends here.”

He wanted to ask her to clarify, but she turned her attention to her smartphone, and Deacon tugged on his sleeve until Vladislav followed him into the crowd. At first, it was a bit of a shoving match to make any headway, but then people started to recognize Deacon. They would make little surprised noises and step aside. Once they reached the center of the crowd, they stopped just in front of a rough circle drawn in green chalk. In the center, one man with a series of tattoos on his bare torso and two black eyes was fighting to hold a pin on a slightly taller man.

“See him?” Deacon pointed to the guy with black eyes. “That’s who I fought last week!”

“I assume you did that to his face?”

“I guess I did!” his grin flashed every inch of his pointed teeth.

“Maybe don’t show your teeth so much?”

“Why not?”

“Is _this_ …” Vlad gestured vaguely between their mouths, “Not against some sort of rule?”

“Don’t you remember the rules from a minute ago? I didn’t hear ‘no vampires’ in there.”

“Hey mate, are you up again tonight?” A burly older man with a gray beard, brown cowboy hat, and flannel jacket grabbed Deacon’s bicep. “I’ve got some hefty legal fees to pay.”

He tugged his arm away. “No. I’m taking a break. But my friend here is.”

He looked over Vladislav. “Fighting in that outfit?”

“Of course! What, he doesn’t look tough to you?”

“Pirate costumes don’t look so tough these days.”

That was too far. Vladislav stepped between them. “How dare you! We are not filthy thieves! We are creatures of the night!”

“That’s reassuring,” Old Beardy said as a mechanical-sounding bell rang out and the tattooed kid jumped for joy in the ring. “I won’t be betting on anything self-described as a ‘creature.’” He and a crowd of other men flocked toward the desk. Vladislav looked around as the crowd’s cheers settled into murmurs and people scattered about the room in small groups, whispering, looking over their shoulders. At some point, the other guy who had been fighting disappeared from the floor into the crowd.

Deacon tried to follow Vladislav’s gaze. “What are you looking for?”

“You said Nick was here last time?”

“Yeah… don’t see him tonight though…”

“Deacon.”

“He _was_ here! I saw with my own two eyes!”

“Then where is he now?”

“I don’t know! You think I understand what goes on his stupid head? Maybe he’s busy!”

“Busy with what?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Busy running like a little bitch?”

“If you’re lying to me—”

Another bell rang out, but Deacon just yelled at him over it. “Why would I lie to you about this?! Just to get you to come for company? For bonding? This is not fishing! I’m here to make us money and I think you’d make us even more than I would! It’s just _interesting coincidence_ that I saw Nick here last week. He saw me too. He must have gotten scared and run off. No big surprise there.”

“HELLO!” Gina’s voice rang out over the speakers. “I NEED ONE VLADISLAV THE POKER TO GET HIS ASS INTO THE RING OR HE’S NOT FIGHTING TONIGHT.”

“He is here!” Deacon announced to no one in particular.

Vladislav took off his big black overcoat and handed it to Deacon, who didn’t look particularly thrilled to hold it, but said nothing. Vlad really hoped Deacon was grateful for his participation. There were many things he’d rather be doing—painting, watching TV, fucking and then eating some virgin from the local community college. Hell, even completing whatever inane chore Viago found for him would be preferable to this. At least it meant the comfort of his own home. And it was tempting to just turn into a bat and fly away, but after how the night had gone thus far, he wasn’t exactly secure in the feeling of leaving Deacon alone there.

But when he stepped into the ring and saw his opponent, suddenly he wondered if perhaps it wasn’t too late to teleport all the way back home.

The only normal-sized part of the guy was a rather handsome blonde head, but it looked miniscule atop what Vladislav could swear was the torso and arms of a gorilla (and a frighteningly large one at that). He realized how impossible that sounded, but it also occurred to him that a lot of people in that room probably thought vampires sounded impossible too.

He had been in enough fights in his long life to know how to get through one. He put his hands up, ready to cover for whatever very typical jab this gym rat was likely to try. Or maybe it was a costume.

Even with his arms as cover, his opponent’s first hit went right through it. The audience roared. Vladislav fell to his knees and felt for his nose to make sure it was still there. _Never mind,_ he thought. _Definitely not a costume._

A swift kick to his side sent him skidding into a few men’s feet. They jumped out of the way, shouting a mix of jeers and laughter at him.

He looked up through a series of stars to growl at Deacon, the only audience member reaching down to help him up. “DEACON! This is NOT a fun way to earn money!”

“It’s also not a fun way to lose money! Fight back! Why don’t you just bite him or something?”

“You think a bite is going to get through all that whatever? He’s a mutant!”

“Well, think of something fast—”

Vladislav sensed him approaching and turned around just in time to deliver a punch. It would have been savage if he didn’t have to reach up so far to deliver it. Gorilla man staggered back for only a second before returning a punch Vladislav barely dodged. He kicked the larger man in the ribs. It had zero effect, besides earning him another staggering hit to the side of the face.

Now he tasted his own stale blood. This was really getting out of hand. He knew he had some strength deep down. Every vampire had something a little extra. Something to help him win.

He let one more punch land on the side of his head. It was dizzying, but he forced himself to stay upright, through sheer power of will. His opponent paused momentarily, furrowing his brow in confusion. Just that one second of pause was the perfect opportunity. Vladislav shot one gloved hand out and grabbed his opponent’s jaw in his hand. He squeezed his face and looked directly into his pretty blue eyes. He hissed, voice barely more than a whisper, “You’ve had enough of this. You simply can’t continue. You’re one blow away from tapping out of this battle. And you’re ready to let me land that blow.”

He paused one more second, just to make sure it registered, just to feel satisfaction in seeing a mysterious exhaustion hit his opponent’s face.

Right before Vladislav’s knee, of course. He dropped to the floor, sending a cloud of dirt up around him.

There were a few confused cheers amongst the men and some very loud whooping from Deacon. Vladislav marched right up to him. Deacon started to say something, but stopped when Vladislav snatched his coat away. Still, Deacon practically skipped as he led the way to the desk. Vladislav shook his head out before following, trying to ignore that he was seeing double (one Deacon was quite enough). At the front desk, Deacon bounced on his boots as Gina counted money in front of him, trying to cover up a growing smile on her face. Vladislav grabbed Deacon’s shoulder mid-bounce. “That was not the fun night out you made it out to be.”

Deacon turned to face him and grabbed his bloody face, ignoring Vladislav’s pained flinch. “But was it not satisfying? Don’t you feel you accomplished something?”

Gina rolled her eyes but still smiled. “Yeah, doesn’t kneeing some guy’s lights out make you feel alive?”

That word was maybe pushing it. Vladislav was so distant from life, he probably wouldn’t recognize the feeling even if it had come his way that night. But despite a throbbing in his jaw, yes, he had to admit, he felt a spark that he hadn’t felt in years.

Still, something was missing in all of this. Maybe it was that he had nothing to wipe his bleeding face with. Maybe it was that neither he nor Deacon thought that far ahead. This venture was successful enough—how successful could it be with another head, someone planning each move in advance?

He kept rubbing his jaw, clicking it into place. When Deacon got his money and turned back to Vladislav with the dumbest grin, before he could say anything, Vladislav said, “I’ll come out again with you—”

“YES! That’s what I thought! We made nearly a thousand dollars! Think of how much we could make if we take ALL of this and put it on TWO fights between us—”

“Viago has to come too.”

“Who’s coming? A Virgo?” Gina said, ignoring a line of quietly protesting men behind the two vampires. “This is really more of a fire sign environment.”

“What? No!” Deacon waved a stuffed envelope in front of him. “I am telling you we could DOUBLE this, but he will just interfere. What about just one more week? With both of us fighting?”

“No.”

“That—what—why not?”

“Why are you so determined to exclude him?”

“Um? Hello? He irons his silk boxers? You think this place suits him?”

“You underestimate the adaptability of a man who spent eighteen months in a shipping crate.”

“I—yes— _fine,_ I know, but…”

“Do you not want to _triple_ our money?”

“Virgos are very good with money, I hear,” Gina muttered to them, eyes on her phone.

Deacon practically hissed, “He is NOT going to be fighting with us! That’s it! I will figure out some other way for us to triple our money! I can do this myself!”

He stomped toward the exit stairs. The line of men shifted out of his way.

“D.B.’s a Gemini, I’m assuming?” Gina said. When Vladislav just nodded to her and went to follow Deacon, she called out, “I knew it. Very shifty. Come back soon, Black Parade!”

He wanted to answer that he wasn’t so sure she’d see him again anytime soon. But when he turned to leave, the line of men shifted even further to recoil away from him. He felt a lone drop of blood go down his chin. None of this looked or felt proper. But it felt so right.

*-*-*

Viago appeared back inside the abandoned café and took off toward the counter, swinging around the plastic bag from the pharmacy. “Yoohoo! I brought you some very exciting things!” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away a circle on the dusty floor, then sat neatly inside of it. He gently pulled open the cabinet door, where the curled up little bat didn’t make any sort of defensive noise, but curled further away from him. Nevertheless, Viago went on, “Let’s see what we got here… some fresh water, iron supplements, a little bowl for everything, a little musher thingy…” The musher thingy in question was a gardening tool, and the bowl was clearly Easter-themed, patterned with pastel eggs, with a little sale sticker on it. “I also got some candles and a lighter because it smells like mildew in here, yuck. Anyway, let’s get to work.”

He reached into the side of his shoe and pulled out a pocket knife. Humming a little tune to himself, muttering, “ _Oh, du bist so schön… Schön wie ein Diamant… Ich will mit dir gehen_ …” as he stabbed the knife into his palm and aimed it into the bowl. There was no flow to it, so he wiggled his fingers to get a few drops going. He managed to use his other hand and a couple non-bloodied fingers to open the bottle of iron pills and scatter a few into the bowl with his blood.

He paused his singing for a few seconds to concentrate on using the handle of the garden tool to mash the whole mixture together. “… _Komm… gib mir deine hand_ …”

Viago heard the dirty _poof_ of the bat changing into a human, and saw long skinny jeans and awkward chunky sneakers sprawl out of the cupboard from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t need to look up to feel satisfaction in knowing he was right, and he felt it before he even heard Nick’s voice. “That sounds like The Beatles.”

“It is. They were popular in Germany too, you know.” Nick started to ask something else, then ended up in a coughing fit. Viago clicked his tongue. “It’s so dusty in here. I don’t know why you picked this place to hide.”

Nick took a long moment to finish hacking, then said, “It was just around. Used to come when it was open. And when I drank coffee.” He sort of leaned his head forward, as if trying to fully get out of the cabinet, but it seemed to be too much of an effort. “What are you making?”

“Just a little something to help vampires not starve to death until I can get you an ample supply of blood.”

“How do you know that will work?”

“Petyr taught me back in the day when he was a little more interested in teaching things.” He handed the bowl to Nick. “I know it doesn’t look appetizing, but it’ll do for now. How long has it been since you had an actual full serving of blood?”

“What’s full servings look like?”

“I guess it depends on whenever you’re sated. Probably a bit more than half of a human in my case.”

“Don’t sound like much.”

“I’m not the hungriest fellow. Really-- how long since you properly ate?”

He palmed the bowl with shaky hands, still lying down, half in the cupboard. “Dunno.”

“It’ll help if you sit up to drink it.”

“That was nice of you,” Nick nodded to Viago’s hand, where he was pressing a second handkerchief to the wound.

“I’m very nice.”

“I know.”

 _So why did you run away?_ he was dying to ask, but figured he should move forward with a bit more tact. “How long have you been in here?

“Dunno.”

 _How helpful._ “Do you ever go out to find food or do you just stay inside all night?”

“Coupla times last month or so. Or coupla months. Dunno.”

Since when had he become this helpless? In the years he lived with them, Viago had thought they taught him _something._ Nick even was the one about a year ago to pass along a helpful tip to Viago about avoiding arterial spray (it turned out this entire time that it wasn’t about just minding the puncture angle, but both the angle and the pace at the same time).

Before he could ask more about it, Nick eyed him over the bowl. “What’re you doin here anyway?”

“Well, to be honest, I have been looking for you, but tonight, I was looking for those other two fools I live with.”

Nick quickly looked down. “… Oh yeah?”

“Yes, they’re out gallivanting around downtown getting into some sort of trouble. They didn’t tell me what they were doing, so I came into town to see for myself. You can see I got a bit distracted, and lost their trail. Who knows where they are now.”

“Maybe they wanted to be left alone.”

“So did you, and you can see how well that’s worked out, yah?”

Viago had taken the empty bowl from Nick and was wiping it out with yet another handkerchief. He didn’t even feel the need to look up when he said that. And obviously Nick didn’t feel the need to answer. Of course he didn’t. No one did. Everyone liked to call him a nag and a bitch and a mom and so forth, but no one seemed to mind his help much when they ended up like Nick, nearly starving to a second death, or Vladislav, defenestrated by Pauline time and time again. And the last time she impaled him and left him for dead, she managed to get him higher up than ever before. Didn’t Vladislav have any appreciation for what a pain in the ass it was to get him off the top of that lighthouse a year ago?

Nick snickered. “I think it’s clean, mate.”

Viago had been wiping the bowl spotless, ignoring the squeaks coming from the shiny cheap plastic. “So it is.”

Nick had gained back just a tiny touch of color in his skin, just enough to join the legion of the undead as opposed to true lifelessness. He was stretching his lanky body out like a cat, his joints cracking as he sat up. “I miss having clean bowls.”

“You could come back home and have all the clean dishes your heart desires.”

Nick fought a smile. “Unless Deacon’s doin’ em.”

“He’s gotten better about it!”

He slouched again. “He doesn’t want me there anyway.”

“That’s not true. He’s been so bored without you. He just wanders the halls looking for someone to annoy. Like a sad little raccoon.” Nick began to curl back up and push himself back inside the cabinet. Now Viago sat up on his knees and tried to follow him inside just a bit. “Nick, you really aren’t the best at hiding things—what else is it? Why not come back? If I don’t know what it is, I can’t help.”

“Can’t help anyway,” he just muttered sadly, lying down to turn away from him.

“That is a _joke_ and you know it. Helping is perhaps my greatest skill. And I have acquired many skills over the years.”

“No, I know, but… you shouldn’t, maybe.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“You’ll get hurt.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to for Viago to interpret what the rest of that reason was: _You’ll get hurt… just like Stu._ Nick pulled the strings of his hoodie tight around his face. Viago thought maybe Nick was trying to cover up tears, but if so, he was crying with perfect silence. The whole scene was starting to get to Viago too, and he felt a little wetness in his eyes, but he blinked it away. This was taking longer than he expected it to, and it was time to get this show on the road.

“Nick, listen. That was a little bit our faults, too. We planned to eventually have a talk with you about Stu back when he was human, anyway. We aren’t meant to keep mortals around. Have you ever heard of those stories of dumb people trying to keep something like a tiger or panther or lion or what have you as a pet? And then one day, it snaps, and it eats them up? All the newspapers say, Oh! That panther went crazy! Well, no, he didn’t. That panther just went… panther. It’s doing what a predator does. That’s all. You are a vampire. You went vampire. The timing was just… poor.”

Nick didn’t uncover himself, but fidgeted around, seeming to work out this logic. Finally, he said, “Stu wasn’t a mortal anymore though. I thought he was safe.”

“That’s what we thought too, but obviously it didn’t—”

“If I knew he wasn’t gonna be safe I’d’ve told him to leave.”

“So would we. We just weren’t thinking ahead. And neither did you, by just up and running away. Maybe it’s time we all just say we made a mistake and fix it, and promise to use our heads more in the future.”

Another long pause, another set of fidgets. Viago looked around. He took off his watch to cut his palm and now wasn’t sure where he put it. By all means, Nick was allowed to have his emotional discoveries, but Viago would really prefer he did it in the house, earlier in the night. Nick muttered, “So you aren’t scared I’m gonna go vamp on _you_?”

“And do what? Turn me into one of you? What would _that_ be like?”

Nick snickered and took his hood off to look up at him from his dark little hole in the wall. “That’s funny.”

“Yes, I’m capable of that sometimes. Now I would like to get home in time for a good day’s sleep. Will you please come with me?”

“You’re not gonna try to get the other guys?”

“They’ll have to find their own way. I’ll worm whatever secret they’re keeping out of Deacon at some point this week, I’m sure.”

“… Yeah, it’s fine.”

Nick was looking everywhere except Viago’s eyes. Again, Viago felt something was off. He had stood up and dusted off his pants, and now he crouched down again to try to meet Nick’s eyes. “Unless of course, you have an idea of where they are.”

“Nah.”

“Nah? No inkling at all?”

Nick forced a laugh and looked at his sneakers. “No, why would I know that? Haven’t seen them in months. Right? Why would I know?”

Viago snatched Nick’s hood. “Where are they?!”

“They’re fighting for money two doors down.”

He pulled the hood harder. Nick lurched forward. “Excuse me, WHAT?”

For someone being effectively hung by his hoodie by a nearly four hundred year old vampire, Nick was remarkably calm. “There’s a club someone started. Don’t know who. I went to check out it one night cause I got bored and heard the racket. Some chick was taking bets but I didn’t have money. Went by for a few weeks because it was better than sittin’ in here. Last week Deacon was there.”

Viago released the hoodie and plopped back on his butt. _Of COURSE Deacon found something like that—who else would—so stupid and so violent and so ANGRY—what is he even so angry about? And why in the WORLD would Vladislav go along with it?_ It was that last thought and his lack of answers that really made Viago want to take the latte machine and hurl it through the window, but he looked up and realized he made a mess of Nick’s hoodie. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. Look at this.” He reached out to smooth it out. Nick didn’t even flinch. “I should not have taken it out on you.”

“Why are you worried?”

“Why in bloody hell does everyone ask me that all the time? What about what you just said is not worrisome?”

“They’re gonna heal if they get hurt.”

“That is really not the point, Nick.”

“At least they’re making money.”

“They could try… I don’t know… typing or something…” Or perhaps just TALKING to Viago if they were that worried about money. How did they get that worried anyway? He hadn’t told them he was worried about paying the bills. And even if he had, why would they think anything other than that Viago was going to take care of it somehow? He always took care of it. Somehow.

And yet, the thought that rose above all of that in his brain was,

_How much money were they pulling in?_

Viago doesn’t usually have such undignified thoughts unless his teeth are deep in someone’s artery. And even then, all it took was the risk of staining to bring him back. Which then, of course, made him question the veracity of that whole little speech he just gave Nick. Maybe Nick did have a bit of an unusual control problem. But surely that was something that could be dealt with. He didn’t know how, but he’d figure it out.

Thinking about all this was making his head feel warm.

Or maybe his head felt _hot._ Very hot.

Viago reached up to touch his curly hair, and looked up to see a small plume of smoke coming from it. Sun was peeking through the boards covering the glass windows. His whole face started to burn and sizzle. He hissed and hurled himself into the shady side of the cabinets. “Ach! I lost track of time!”

He was bunched up next to Nick, who also slowly curled his long legs up toward his chest. He pulled his hood back over his head. “Fine, mate. Go bat in a few minutes. Get in the cabinet. Sleep ‘til night.”

“No, but—I didn’t find—what if Vladislav and Deacon—”

“Can’t you just teleport home?”

“No no, it’s too far. What if I miss and get half of myself stuck in a piece of furniture or up in the air?”

Nick chuckled. “Up in the air?”

“Yes. I did that once. Up on the ceiling. Hung from the chandelier until it started to creak. I didn’t want to ruin it—it’s a very lovely chandelier you see—so I let go.”

“Can’t you fly?”

“I panicked, I forgot. So worried about the chandelier.” He reached up to tug at his collar. “Odd sensation, breaking your neck. Quite painful too.”

“Can’t you just heal from that?”

“Of course, but what kind of ill vampire would _willingly_ get hurt just because they don’t die?”

Nick laughed again and closed his eyes. “Good question.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“Nah. Got all day to think about it, though.”

*-*-*

Deacon tried to throw open the front door to the house, but slammed into it with a _clunk-clunk_ of his shoulder followed by his head. “What the fuck? Why did he lock the door behind us?”

Vladislav fished out a key from deep within a pocket somewhere. “I told you. The paranoia.”

“Well, it’s really getting on my nerves. Maybe this will help…” When Vladislav opened the door, Deacon skipped through the door and around the foyer like a schoolboy. “HALLO! VIAGO! COME BRING YOUR PRISSY ASS DOWNSTAIRS, I HAVE A GIFT FOR YOU!”

Deacon disappeared down the hall, calling out a string of happy jabs at Viago, swinging his envelope of cash around, but Vladislav hung back in the foyer. The air was still. He couldn’t hear any of the usual small sounds of Viago fussing with something or other. “Deacon, be quiet for one moment.”

Deacon poked his head out from the other end of the hall. “What is your problem?”

“Something’s… strange. You look around in there.” Vladislav made his way upstairs, and in no time at all had peeked inside each room, but there was no sign of Viago. He half-glided back down the stairs.

Deacon was coming out of Viago’s room. “He’s not in his room.”

“Did you check the study?”

“Yeh.”

“Check again, I’ll look in here.”

“You don’t trust me to look inside of a bedroom and see if someone’s in it or not?”

“No. Go check the study again.”

Deacon walked down the hall again, grumbling, any trace of skip out of his step, his envelope sticking out of the back of his pants. Vladislav looked around Viago’s room, but it wasn’t like his own—there were no hiding places in between piles of trash, art, and clothes. It was so clean that there was nowhere one could possibly hide.

He knew he shouldn’t look inside the coffin—some things are just private—but when he passed by it, he smelled blood. Not human blood, not like a midnight snack had been spilled, but the acrid tang of old vampire blood. His hands hovered over the lid. He didn’t want to open it. He braced himself for the worst and pried it open. Not seeing any corpses or body parts from just glancing inside, he pushed the lid the rest of the way off.

The inside was embedded with deep grooves. That was where the blood smell was coming from. Leaning closer, he realized they were words. It was hard to make out, but eventually he realized, it was rows and rows of repeating phrases:

_Kathryn tut mir leid_  
_Kathryn tut mir leid_  
_Kathryn tut mir leid_

from the top of the head side of the coffin for at least three feet down toward the middle.

He ran his fingers on it, trying to figure out what tool put the scrawl in place, staring so intently he didn’t hear Deacon come in.

“What the hell is all that?” Vladislav threw the coffin lid down, but Deacon was undeterred. “Was that some sort of witch spell? I thought we agreed no witches in the house except for orgies!” Vladislav ignored Deacon and stomped past him back toward the front of the house. “Where are you going?” Deacon called out, leaning out of Viago’s doorway.

Seeing Deacon lean on the wooden frame, suddenly Vladislav realized how wrong it felt. “Deacon, get out of there! We shouldn’t be going through his things. Obviously he’s not here. We have to do something about it.”

Deacon stepped out of Viago’s room, looking between the empty room and Vladislav, his eyebrows bunched together with nerves. “What could we do?”

“Go get him! He must be out somewhere. Perhaps he followed us. I don’t know. What the hell else would we do?”

“No, I know, I’ll go out tonight too, but what could we do NOW, I meant?”

Vladislav had a hand on the front door knob already, but he looked up at the peephole, where sunlight was poking through. “Fuck.”


	5. Pinky Swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick rallies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer probs, so who knows when the next update is. I wanted to make this one hella long but at least it is here.  
> (If you miss all the violence, don't worry things will pick up again soon)

_But I still don't understand_  
_What this whole thing's about_  
_And all the words that you said_  
_Are somehow stuck in my mouth_  
_And this was going so well_  
_But I don't know what I did_  
_All I really can tell, is_  
_I've been hit!_

\- We Are Scientists, "It's A Hit"

* * *

Look, Nick never said he was the brightest guy in the room at any given time. Nor the most interesting, nor the toughest. In fact, in more than one attempt in the past to become the most interesting person in a bar, he ended up losing undeniably in bars. If he came home with a bump on his head or a black eye, when whoever iced it for him—his mother, Stu, Viago, long lines of girlfriends who left shortly afterward—asked him what happened, he would always just mutter, “Took a big L.”

Most of the time, all he could say was that he was the coolest person in the rom, or just the most stylish. Always the one with the best playlist, and on a few lucky occasions, the hottest.

With humans, there was almost always this pressure to be at least one of those things. Stu was the only one who never seemed to induce that feeling.

With vampires, everything changed, once he settled into the lifestyle. Suddenly he was—without a doubt, without a chance for debate—almost never any of those things. And what a relief it was, to not have to fight, for a blissful couple of years.

When Vladislav tried to teach him how to hold a bow and arrow, in a quiet stony patience as cold as his fingers, Nick knew he would never be the toughest fighter in that room. When Deacon would toss a simple barb out and ruin Nick’s whole night without thinking about it—“Oh, THAT’S what you’re wearing?” in that thick European rhythm Nick could never identify the origin of, he knew he wasn’t the coolest guy in the house. And when Viago existed somewhere in between his flatmates, trying so hard to show Nick how to use his potter’s wheel for the umpteenth time (“Nicholas, I know you can do this, you’re not stupid,”), Nick realized Viago was the smartest person he knew.

For such a smart guy, it was so easy to fool him in tic-tac-toe.

“Drat!” Viago waved the pen in his hand around. “There must be some sort of secret to this!”

They were laying down face up, torsos in the cabinet, both sets of long legs sprawled out onto the dirty tile floor, reaching up to draw on the slightly rotted wood above them. The space on the bottom of the cabinet between them was completely covered in little games already. They were on game thirty of tic-tac-toe. Before that, they played a few rousing games of twenty-one questions, in which they found out each other’s favorite colors, parents’ occupations, and favorite foods pre-vampirism (Nick’s was obviously chips, but Viago’s was pavlova, if you were wondering). And before that, Nick got probably the best sleep he had in months. Trying to sleep as a bat was much more restful when there was another bat hanging around a few feet away. Even more so when he knew who it was (there had been a couple of strange bats who attempted to mate with him, which is a story he was trying very hard to forget).

“I think it’s just practice,” Nick said.

“Where did you get these pens?”

“Whatever this café was, they had a bunch.”

“They seem very well-stocked. Pity it closed. This economy… Wellington is not what it used to be.”

“Yeah. There was a lot of food. Was gonna throw it out but it got some rats here. Which helped when, you know… nothin else to eat.”

Viago shivered a bit. “I have been there. No fun.” He pushed himself up and out of the cabinet, stretching his back like a cat before returning to his usual stick-straight posture. He reached into his pocket for his gloves. “Back at the house, you wouldn’t have that problem. Plenty of supplies to go around.”

Nick didn’t have an answer he wanted to say out loud, so he just stayed on the floor, staring up at the top of the cabinet.

Viago huffed. “Nick, really, this is ridiculous. Why is staying in here any better than living with us?”

“It’s not.”

“So?”

Nick picked at their tic tac toe drawings, his lumpy ovular O’s and Viago’s perfectly straight X’s. He considered lying, but what was the point? He wasn’t even a good liar before he met other creatures with telepathy and hundreds of years of observing people. “I bet you’re the only one who wants me to go back.”

“That’s not true.” Viago bent down and reached for Nick’s hoodie sleeve, pinching the dirty material and tugging a bit. “This is enough. Don’t be a child. Come, come. Home we go.”

“I’m not goin back today. But.” The idea of being alone eating rats for the rest of eternity was harsh. The idea of Viago wandering around worried about him _and_ Vladislav _and_ Deacon was almost equally harsh. “If you come back next week I’ll show you where I saw Deacon.”

“Nick, _please_ ,” he said. Nick felt conflicted between wanting to yank himself free and grab onto Viago’s arm and hold tight. So he just lay there. “If I don’t know where you are, I can’t help you!”

“I’ll be here.”

“How do I know you’ll be okay until next week?”

“I’ll find something.”

“If I put out blood will you come get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you promise?”

Nick held out his pinky.

“Are you making fun of me for the way I hold tea cups? Now is really not the time. I feel very sensitive these days.”

“No, that’s like—kids do it. Pinky swear. Put your pinky on mine.” Viago hesitated, then reached out one gloved pinky. “Yeah. Now lock it around. That’s it. Pinky swear.”

“Ah!” Viago looked delighted. “That is so much better than the blood oaths Vladislav always wants to do. Okay. I will see you next week. Pinky swear!” He hopped up and down a couple times. “That’s adorable!” And in a flash on his third hop up, he disappeared, and Nick was alone. Not much else to do, he figured, so he started drawing another tic tac toe board, just for himself.

-*-*-

When Viago walked into the house, Vladislav was waiting in one of the easy chairs. He had a book open in his lap, but he was glaring up toward the door. He knew he looked extra sinister under the dim amber glow of the knockoff Tiffany lamp one of the two of them picked up some fifty years prior. This was a tactic he used when he wanted to lecture Deacon or Nick for stupid decision-making, but Viago just ignored the harsh stare. He took off his gloves, folded them neatly, put them in his pocket, and then started sorting out piles of already-organized mail on the credenza.

Vladislav was better at the silent game, and after a minute or so, Viago cleared his throat.

Vladislav made a little go-on gesture.

Viago rearranged a little bowl of potpourri so it aligned perfectly with a dish of little accessories they kept up front, all of them stolen from victims. He wiped off a pair of sunglasses that they would never need, trying to ignore Vladislav’s waving hands. “Vlad, what is that for? What are you telling me?”

“You mean you have nothing you’d like to say to me?”

“Not really.”

“Nothing about where you were last night?”

“Well, where were _you_ last night? Start there, yah? Then I’ll try to catch up?”

“Wherever I was, I returned in time for sunrise.” Now infuriated, he stood up, sending the book skidding across the floor toward Viago. “What is the matter with you? What an amateur move, running out of time. You weren’t turned yesterday, Viago. And as if you don’t have a watch you check like a maniac every five minutes!”

Viago didn’t look at him. Too busy rubbing the spine of the book and smoothing over the newly wrinkled corners. “No matter how mad you are at me for whatever inane reason you came up with, there’s no need to go around throwing things.”

“I will throw things as long as you make me stay up through the night worrying!”

“Oh! Ah! Not so fun to worry, is it?” Viago stuck out one hip and put his hand on it. “Now maybe you won’t make fun of me for worrying and nagging all the time? Now that you know what it’s like to wonder if your flatmate is a little pile of ash in the sun on the street?” If his hip went out any further, Vladislav felt he was going to smash it with the lamp, but Viago held up an envelope. “This is a very overdue water bill, so if you don’t have anything to say about where YOU went last night, I’m going to go call them up and pay it, and move on with my night.”

Vladislav reached for it. “Let me.”

Viago held it away. “It didn’t work out last time.”

“I’m going to try again.”

“Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I will pay it—”

“With what money?”

“Oh, and you have any?”

That did it. Viago’s eyes popped all the way open—quickly, almost imperceptibly—and then he crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “I do. Actually. Shows how much you know about me.”

“Fool. I know everything about you.”

“Then where was I last night?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned with a little squeak of his shiny shoes and walked down the hallway. Vladislav could see he was forcing a swagger into his usual stiff posture. Usually this would make him feel victorious in their little spats—any crack in Viago’s veneer brought him satisfaction—but this time he had the distinct feeling he lost.

“How did that go?” Deacon suddenly appearing at the head of the stairs should have startled Vladislav, but Deacon hadn’t crossed him as startling since the sixties. “I heard you talking. Did you tell him? About the thing?”

“No.”

“Oh! Perfect!” Deacon jumped down half the steps. “Then it’s just us again next week?”

“Yes.”

“That’s much better. You’ll see.” With a flourish, Deacon stalked off down the hall, towards where Viago went.

“Deacon, don’t bother him. It’s not the time.”

“Who said anything about bothering?”

Vladislav had a feeling he should actually get up and stop Deacon, but he didn’t, just sat holding the book he had thrown. He opened it up to a random page, but didn’t really read it, too busy replaying the last twenty-four hours, with an emphasis on the last three minutes. His eyes only went back to the page when where he was clutching began to sizzle.

“Hm.” He waved the five thin lines of smoke coming from the finger-print shaped brown burn marks on the book. That was a new discovery. He hadn’t found a new power like that in years. And yet, it didn’t excite him. He just shook his hot fingers out and turned the page to something less singed.

-*-*-

In his study, Viago sat at his desk. He sat ramrod straight, his legs crossed so tightly his foot double-crossed behind his ankle. He stared at the bill, knowing he couldn’t pay it, knowing there were two more he also couldn’t pay on the credenza. Should he sell that credenza? How? Not on Ebay, since the wifi was due to get turned off any day. Maybe he had some jewelry to sell to a pawn shop.

Maybe he had _certain_ jewelry to sell.

Maybe it was time.

He took out that familiar precious little velvet bag, with spots of smooth wear from years of handling. He didn’t bother to put his gloves on when he took out the silver locket and chain. Instantly, it started tingling and itching, but he just held it. He felt his fingertips getting warm.

He squeezed the locket in the palm of his hand, the burning pain doubling him over his crossed legs. He resisted hissing, but couldn’t stop some tears of dark blood from leaking out of his eyes. Smoke started to rise up into his face.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Deacon asked from behind.

He dropped the locket on the floor and didn’t turn around, clutching his sizzling palm to his chest. “I told you a thousand times to knock.”

“I did. You didn’t hear.”

“Knock louder, please.”

“Fine, whatever, I’m leaving, but I just wanted to give you this.” Deacon waited for Viago to turn around, but he didn’t. After a second, Deacon dropped something with a papery _plop_ on the floor, then walked out. Something about his soft footsteps and the even quieter click of the door shutting with care made one more bloody tear leak out of Viago’s eyes and onto his pants. He swore and jumped up, looking for a handkerchief.

When he got up, he saw what Deacon had left behind: a huge wad of cash on the floor, tied up with a piece of scrap fabric stained with blood.

He sat on the floor to count it. Before he was even done, he knew it was hundreds of dollars. Enough for the bills that month. They would be fine. Thanks to Deacon.

He reached over and picked up the locket to squeeze it again, switching hands.

-*-*-

Deacon shut the front door behind him and plopped down on the porch. He brought out some supplies to knit with, but he just rolled around the yarn with one hand, and used the other to scroll through his phone contacts. The battery on Deacon’s phone was only 9% charged but he still dialed one of the only numbers he had saved in it—besides the house phone, Viago, Vladislav, Nick (hadn’t texted it in months), Stu (didn’t have the heart to delete it), the dentist (even vampires grind their teeth at night, turns out), and four different phone sex lines (three run by women, one by men, just to mix things up a bit).

Suddenly, he felt this looked dumb and desperate, and almost hung up, but she was too quick for him—Jackie picked up after one ring. “Deacon! What a nice surprise! I was just thinking about you the other day.”

“Oh yeah?” He didn’t want to waste time, but did like to know he was thought about. “You miss me so much, I’m sure?”

“No, my new familiar had brought over some laundry and I tell you, it simply wasn’t up to snuff. She had the nerve to complain about there being too much blood to wash out. This dumb millennial creature, you’d have killed her in two seconds, or maybe she’s Generation XYZ or something, who knows. I told her that if she only saw the state of those puffy white shirts you used to give me…”

“Yes. A man has needs. You always understood my needs.”

“That I did.”

“Listen, I need you to let me know how you did something when you were around here… you mentioned one day we should do some sort of… online bill paying system?”

“Yes, and I mentioned it to that lovely man who got you your computers. The one who came to the ball and caused a bit of a stir. What was his name? Stan?”

“Stu.”

“He mentioned he was going to talk to Viago and get it set up. Did Stu follow up with you about that at all?”

“No, he—no.”

“Oh. Well then… my familiar is a little busy this week. I’m moving into a new place, so she’s got a lot of boxes to take back and forth, packing and unpacking, you know how it is.”

“Yes.” He did not. Deacon had not “moved” in about a hundred years, and when he did, he had little stuff to his name that required moving.

“But maybe in early October sometime she can come by and set it up for you. One thing about these teenagers is they know computers. Fuck all about digging graves, though.”

“She can’t come earlier?”

“No. I just finalized my divorce and I need to get out of here. The environment’s a little hostile since my husband started thinking for himself again.”

“You don’t need him anyway. He’s an idiot.”

“I can see that now. No great loss. But still, we are busy for a while, I’m afraid.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just send the teenager over when you can.”

“Anything else on your mind?”

Deacon had gotten up to stretch his legs and pace around the stoop. He got up on tiptoes to look inside the window on the door. Vladislav was sitting in the same chair, same position as when he was waiting for Viago to come in. He was just sitting there, brooding, unmoving, staring off into space. “You say your husband asked for a divorce?”

“Yes. Good riddance, I’d say.”

“How did you know he was going to ask for a divorce?”

“Well, he wouldn’t stop asking questions. About all the nighttime visitors, new friends, who I was eating and when. Neverending.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“None of his business.”

“… But now you are divorced.”

“But now I’m independent!”

“Hmmm,” he kicked his ball of yarn around. “Okay. That’s it.”

“That’s all you need?”

“Yes.”

“How are your flatmates? Did Nick ever--”

His phone went dead. He hurled it at the trap Vladislav had set up for Nick long ago. Some “trap.” It was just a cage for a large dog with a couple chains of silver wrapped around it, a stick, a string running to the kitchen window. No wonder it didn’t work. Deacon figured even Nick wasn’t stupid enough to get caught in it.

He went over to the trap to pick up his phone. He heard the front door open, and Viago call out to him, “Deacon, what are you doing over there?”

Deacon ignored the question and came up to him on the door step. He looked at the little jar of blood in Viago’s hand. “What, no fancy little label on it this time?”

“No need, I decided. Waste of time. Waste of tape.”

“Not a waste of jars?”

“That I can afford.”

“I will go get you some more jars.”

Viago put a soft hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “ _That_ I can afford, I said. Thank you, though.” When he took his hand away and walked toward the trap, his hand left a small ashy print on Deacon’s shoulder. Deacon watched Viago put a jar of blood down in the trap, then reach into his pocket and put his gloves on. He started walking off toward the street clenching something in his pocket with extreme concentration.

“Where are you going?” Deacon called out.

“Into town.”

“Why?”

“Errands.”

“More jars?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come?”

This, Viago paused at. He took his hand out of his pocket, fiddled with his glove, and answered, “No.”

And with that, he was a bat, flying up into the night sky. His response crossed Deacon as rude, and he made up his mind to be angry about it. Not so angry that he didn’t take a seat on the stoop, knitting a large, lumpy red blanket until he saw the shadow of a bat come back toward home about an hour later.

*-*-*-*-*

Viago checked his watch. This was the same time he arrived into town the previous week. It had been a very awkward week at home. Viago and Vladislav avoided each other, mostly staying on separate floors of the house. Viago noted that Vladislav had still been careful to do all his chores, so maybe that was his way of apologizing. Deacon hadn’t been as good about it, but as long as he was paying all the bills, Viago just kept his mouth shut and did the dishes himself. Without being able to chatter away with Vladislav or complain to Deacon, most of the sound was just the click of Deacon’s knitting needles or someone smacking the TV to get better reception. It had been so quiet, no one even noticed when he slipped out of the house.

So when he saw Nick, he couldn’t resist a quick hug and starting chatter right away. “Hello, Nicholas! Oh, you got the fresh sweatshirt I put out for you the other night! And it looks like you’re also drinking everything I set out for you. Your color has returned. Or what there was of it.” He patted down a bit of Nick’s hair. “Perhaps a haircut is in order once we get a new familiar?”

“Yeah, whatever you say, mate,” Nick just grinned and started walking down the street. _Whatever you say!_ Music to Viago’s ears. Speaking of music, “Oh look! This used to be a music store.”

“Yeah, this is it.” Nick leaned forward and spoke into a little mailbox. “Mildred Snitzer.”

“Gesundheit?” Viago said.

“Old password but I don’t care. You can come in.” The mailbox responded. A noise like a _click_ came from what Viago assumed was a long piece of plywood, but turned out to be a door Nick went into and held open behind him.

Inside was a room dark enough Viago could just make out shapes of instruments and shelves. They headed toward a back wall and another door. Along the way, at some point, Viago knocked over an electric guitar, apologized to it, and picked it back up, before going through the door and being instantly overstimulated.

“What’s all this racket?” He tried to peer into a large group of men as they went down some rickety stairs. “Do you know all these men? Why are they yelling?” He pulled his cravat over his nose. “What is that _smell?_ Is this a gym of some kind?”

“No mate, they’re fighting, remember?”

Viago shook out his hands as he looked at the circle of men, all leaning intensely toward something they were staring at, then bouncing up as they cheered. “I guess I was hoping you were exaggerating.”

“Wanna come watch?”

“Not really. I think I’ll just stay up front and wait for some friends.” Viago parked himself next to a desk, trying to ignore the piercing, heavily-lined blue eyes of the woman behind it.

When Nick shrugged and started to walk away, she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “Uh-uh. New rule. If you’re here, you either make a bet or sign up to fight.”

Nick pulled his hand away. “Since when?”

“Since the powers that be decided to put a cap on new people until we can get a bigger venue. So what’ll it be?”

“I didn’t bring any money, I don’t think,” Viago felt for his wallet.

“Then sounds like you’re up, bud. Hey, you dress hella weird. Any chance you’re related to my other two vintage goths who come around?”

“No. I am not associated with these kinds of people.” Then Viago’s eyes popped up toward her. “Wait. What kind of vintage people are they?”

“Hard to describe. They’ll probably be here later. Maybe y’all can link up and start a club. Anyway, what’s your name?”

“I’d really rather not—”

Nick shrugged. “It’s fine, they probably won’t even get to us.” He nodded to the woman. “Right?”

“Dunno. We lost a couple people cause of the new rules. What’s your name, Mumblecore?”

“Put me down as Edward.”

“Fine. Fancypants, who’re you? Three seconds for a name or I’m opening up an Ikea app and naming you after the first item I see.”

Viago shot Nick a look. “I’m keeping my gloves on in here.”

The woman flipped her hair. “ _Korg_ it is. You’re both in empty slots. Coming up soon-ish I’m holding some space for friends tonight, so hang tight to see who your opponents are.”

“Hang tight? Does that mean stand here and wait?”

“If you stand here and stare at me with your formalwear and doe eyes I’m gonna kick you in the codpiece.”

“Okay. Please don’t do that.”

“Go enjoy the show.”

“I don’t see how—” but Nick tugged him toward the center of the room. Viago let himself be led, happy for the attention, but called over his shoulder, “It’s not a codpiece!”

-*-*-

If Vladislav didn’t know Deacon so well, he’d say that there was someone he was trying to impress.

Deacon had scrawled out a series of notes on his hand that seemed so messy Vlad could never decipher them in a million years, but they helped Deacon find their way to the formerly-abandoned music store in a matter of minutes after they touched down on the ground, and remember the password after a moment of squinting at his palm. When the door clicked open, Deacon ran an inky hand through his hair. It didn’t help how messy it was, but he looked satisfied nonetheless.

“Making your hair look good for what? To get blood in it?” Vladislav said, his hands outstretched in the dark, feeling around to make sure he didn’t trip over an instrument.

“Worry about yourself! Look at you, hands out like a zombie. What are you so scared of? This?” He deliberately kicked over a music stand he nearly tripped over seconds before. It knocked three others over with a clattering domino effect.

“It’s not a crime to not want to make noise for no reason.”

“You’ve been jumpy all night. Don’t embarrass me, I keep telling you. How hard is it?”

Vladislav wanted to comment that Deacon does a fine job embarrassing himself, but he had a point. Vlad had indeed felt jumpy that day. He could blame it on the new little discovery he made about himself and his hands earlier that week—every time he tried to practice his new power in his room, he set something ablaze. Once, a couple days in, he wasn’t able to throw a decanter of water on it in time before some smoke crept out into the hallway, prompting Viago to wordlessly leave a candle snuffer at Vlad’s door. Vladislav expected a lecture to go along with it and got none. He kind of missed it.

Before Vladislav could voice any concern to Deacon, he hopped and skipped away from Vladislav toward Gina’s desk. “My dear, we have returned! Did you miss us?”

“I certainly missed your outfits! Do a turn! Let’s see what we’re wearing today!” Gina clapped as Deacon twirled for her, his black trenchcoat billowing out over his black jumpsuit. “Wow! So much black! So creative! It’s almost a cohesive look, and it’s only from like two different decades this time. Truly inspired.”

He stopped turning and leaned over her desk. “I like your clothes too, you know.”

“That’s surprising because they’re very modern and look like they’re meant for an actual human, not an alien pretending.”

“But they are tight and I like that. It’s my favorite kind of clothes on a lady.”

“Alright, moving on!” She turned around so her eyes could scan the list. “Do you want to go sooner or later? I have some guys who signed in earlier you can fight. They seemed weird so I left them open just for you.”

Deacon rubbed his hands together. “That would be a pleasure to beat up someone you specially coordinated just for me.”

“That’s a totally sane way to think!” she said as she rearranged the names. In front of an open slot for someone named Edward, she put Deacon’s name. “How about you over there, Slash? You want to fight someone named Korg? You’re the same height-ish.”

“Is my guy the same height-ish?” Deacon asked.

“Not likely, my little dude.”

“That’s rude.”

“Don’t worry. Short guys can still get it sometimes.”

“Hmmm,” Vladislav wasn’t expecting anyone except them to have names that weren’t just run-of-the-mill angry modern white men’s names. “Korg. What kind of a name is that?”

“Beats me. Ikea made it up. The other guy seemed like he was lying too. They seemed like they wanted to keep their real names secret. Shifty as fuck.” She shifted her blue eyes to Deacon. “You know what… maybe don’t fight them after all? I’ll fit you in your usual spot toward the end.”

“How are they shifty?” Vladislav asked.

She couldn’t resist laughing before she answered, “You know what? Honestly? Shifty like you. That’s the only way I can think of to describe it. Funny outfits. Funny accents. Well, one of them’s sort of regular New Zealand-y, but he mumbles a lot. Just kinda… shifty, I.D.K.”

“Shifty like us? Shifty like a FOX!” Deacon slapped Gina’s desk with enthusiasm, ignoring her obvious look of disapproval. “I want to take on your strange newcomers immediately! Let me be your welcoming committee!”

She laughed, lower now, glancing at her phone. “You all just like to march to your lil’ own beat, huh?” She swiveled away to write their names in: Vlad vs. Korg. That round was coming up quickly. Deacon vs. Edward. That was directly after. “Wanna place a bet too?”

“Yes,” Deacon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope (with Viago’s name printed on it). “Split this halfway between us.”

“Wow, you got a new envelope. You’re really on top of it today, D.B. Oh and look! It’s someone else’s letterhead! Don’t tell me you stole from this guy just to impress me?”

“For you? Anything.”

“For me, keep winning these fights.”

“With pleasure.” Deacon started strolling away toward the center of the room. He gestured to Vladislav, as if just remembering he was there. “You not coming to watch?”

“That’s a lot of noise. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Deacon shrugged and walked away. Vladislav watched him join the cheering men. He was vaguely aware Gina was watching him. She turned her face to her phone, but said to him, “Anything you need to talk about, Severus Snape?”

“Do you have working fire alarms in here?”

“No, so I’ll just pretend you didn’t ask that very worrisome question.”


	6. Dangerous/Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladislav and Viago fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point perhaps you're wondering what the climax of the story is going to look like  
> Perhaps I'm wondering the same thing myself  
> not one hundy by any means but I will let you know my current estimated chapter count for this fic is 12-14 
> 
> As per usual, you know I love a kudo, but those comments really water my garden if you know what I mean. If there is one thing I'm asking you to excuse for this chapter, it's probably passage of time... I know things moved rather quick vs. how it would actually move on a clock. If I tell you I know this, does that make it okay?

_My black eye casts no shadow_  
_Your red eye sees nothing_  
_Your slap don't stick_  
_Your kicks don't hit_  
_So we remain the same_  
_Love sticks_  
_Sweat drips_  
_Break the lock if it don't fit_

_A kick to the teeth is good for some_  
_A kiss with a fist is better then none_

\- Florence + the Machine, “Kiss with a Fist”

* * *

Viago clucked like a chicken when some fighter’s nose blood splattered into the chalk ring, catching his shoes. “Oh my word! And people say I have trouble controlling a spray!”

Nick wanted to laugh at those comments, and the noise he made, and the general absurdity of Viago and his linen shirt and his brocade waistcoat in a place like this. But he was too busy trying _not_ to look at the nose blood, but not looking only made the _smell_ more overwhelming, to the point he could taste the metal in the back of his throat, and he kept swallowing to make it go away, but that only made him want to keep swallowing to taste it more, and his tongue was tingling, and he was very close to getting on the ground and licking it off the floor and the chalk and even the shoes and—

He heard some mechanical noise go out over the speaker.

“Me? Is that me?” Viago said. His voice sounded far away, even though he leaned toward Nick to whisper. “It sounded like they called for a cork. Is that me?”

“Yeah,” Nick nodded toward the desk. “That was the name she gave you, ‘member?”

“Well, yes, but no, see, then that would mean I was fighting Vladislav.”

Nick stared back at him.

“They also called for Vladislav just now over the speaker.”

Nick could see in Viago’s face, all tensed eyebrows and continuous blinking, that he knew exactly what was happening, but wanted an excuse. Nick cleared his throat, trying to think of a way out. But if Viago couldn’t think of one, then what hope did Nick have to do so? “Uh, yeah, that means… you gotta fight him.”

“Can’t we just leave?”

“If you leave, I don’t think they’re gonna want you to come back.”

“I don’t want to! I just want to find my dumb fucking flatmates and leave.”

The speaker crackled: “Repeat, I need one Vladislav and one Korg to the ring! One more call, then you forfeit!”

Nick looked up at the speaker. “I guess she found them for you… at least?”

Viago tensed his jaw and tiptoed around the few strange men in his way until he got to the ring, an uneven circle of aqua-colored chalk. Nick followed him, not sure if he could be of assistance, but not sure where else to go either. Once Viago was in view of the ring, he said, calmly, “Oh. Vladislav.”

Vladislav looked up at him. “What the … Fuck? VIAGO?” Viago stepped aside to show off Nick. Now Vladislav looked more annoyed than anything else. Nick silently thanked whatever gods vampires thanked that Vladislav wasn't fully angry at him (that was a terrifying thought). “NICK?”

“Yes, Nick!” Viago said, stepping back in front of him.

“Hi... Vladislav,” Nick lifted his hand to wave, but lowered it the second he realized Vladislav's eyes were turning a murky black. Vladislav muttered under his breath, “Viago...”

From where Vladislav was standing, Deacon took a small step forward. He gestured to himself. “Deacon.”

“We know,” Viago and Vladislav said to him in unison. 

“Hey, Abbott and Costello,” said the speaker. “Timer started one minute ago.”

*-*

Vladislav wondered if he could still use telepathy with any reliability. He hadn’t tried it in many years, more than many years on another vampire, longer still on Viago. He hadn’t needed to for as long as he could remember.

But he knew that bell was going to ring any moment. He tried to think a thought as hard and clear as possible in Viago’s direction. _Throw the fight. One of us has to throw the fight. Listen to me. Hear what I’m saying. Throw the fight._

It wasn’t working, or Viago was ignoring him. Vladislav had long since thrown off his coat and vest, rolling up his long black puffy sleeves. Viago had done nothing like that. If anything, he re-secured his ascot. He futzed with his sleeves. Then he even moved a hand to fix his hair.

He was ignoring Vlad deliberately. If a thought could growl, Vlad’s would have spat: _You fussy little BITCH_

Viago’s big eyes popped open at him. “ExCUSE me?”

Vladislav curled his lip. _So you CAN hear me?_

Viago rolled his eyes. _You’re not exactly subtle_

_One of us must throw the fight_

A different, gentler eye roll. _You might be right. No good can come of just walking out at this point. No need for a riot_

_And no need to blow our cover so soon when there’s more money to make_

_Rest assured I am not coming back after this little incident_

_Then I’ll make it easy so you can get out… and keep that ascot clean_

_This is a cravat_

_I don’t care_

_So what’s your plan?_

_I throw three punches to your head, you rally and give me two, I land one kick on your stomach. Pretend it broke a rib. Too much pain to go on. Match over._

Viago’s eyes moved back and forth as he listened to Vlad’s plan. Then… he said nothing back. Just took off his cravat and rolled it up it. He held it out without looking. Nick obediently stepped up and took it. Then he undid his waistcoat.

_Viago… what are you doing?_

_I just don’t see why I am the one who has to lose the fake fight?_

He thought of a bunch of swear words. His thoughts were getting cloudy in confusion. Why was Viago picking now to argue? Finally, he thought, as clearly as he could, waving his fist, _Because I am going to be coming back here each week!_

_You can’t come back if you lose?_

_I don’t WANT to come back if I lose!_

Viago handed his very neatly folded vest to Nick next.

The robot bell rang out. The crowd went wild.

Vladislav scanned Viago’s face for some sign of compliance. All he saw was the faintest smirk. He was trying to cover it. But Vladislav could’ve seen it from a mile away. _Confirm you’ll do as I say. Throw the fight!_

Viago cocked his head to the sight, eyebrows knitting in mock confusion. He tapped his ear as he walked up to Vladislav. “What was that you said? It got very loud in here suddenly!”

“If you don’t do what I told you to do, you’ll be very sorry.”

“STOP TALKING AND FIGHT!” someone called out, receiving a round of loud, angry agreements from a circle of rabid men around him.

Viago nodded at this man, as if to say, _Good suggestion!_ And then in a flash whipped around and punched Vladislav in the chest.

It floored him. He felt at least one rib crack. Maybe two. Something was dislodged. Some kind of bodily fluid was on its way up.

He spat on the ground near Viago’s feet and looked up at him. “You really want to do this?” Viago didn’t answer. Vladislav tracked his gaze to the crowd, specifically to Deacon. Deacon looked more worried than Vlad had ever seen him. Pale green eyes so wide they were ghostly, one hand covering his mouth. Biting his fingernails.

Vladislav wanted to be worried. But he knew Viago was more so. A good distraction. His chest protested with a burst of pain, but he reached out and gripped Viago’s ankles. With one good yank he pulled his legs out from under him.

Viago crashed to the floor. His head bounced off the concrete with a sickening crack. “AH! FICH DICH ARSCHLOCH!” He clutched the back of his head.

Vlad jumped on top of him. He grabbed Viago’s shirt collar. “One last chance.”

Viago hissed and spun his legs around, reversing their position in an instance. Vlad tugged his collar down to punch him in the face. Twice. Then with one mighty shove, Viago went skidding across the floor into unfamiliar mens’ legs.

Vlad had a troubled feeling watch Viago be pushed back up by a crowd of growling men, holding his face. He channeled that unease into a new telepathic message— _I take no pleasure in hurting you._

Viago steadied himself and rolled his eyes. He reached into his mouth and pulled out part of a tooth, “tsk”ing and putting it in his pocket.

Vlad hissed at him. _STOP ROLLING YOUR EYES AND TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY. I’M STRONGER THAN YOU ARE_

In a flash, Viago appeared in front of him. “Oh yah?” He kicked Vlad in the shin. It snapped loudly.

The audience gasped. Vlad hit the floor. Through the blinding pain, he heard someone say, “Damn that fancy guy’s fast.”

Vlad grabbed Viago’s shirt and used it to pull himself back up. “You want to give us away?!”

Viago didn’t respond. He seemed off balance. They both staggered to the floor, Viago half on top of Vlad. He reached up for his head. “Oh… teleporting while concussed… feels… swirly…”

Vlad easily pushed him over. Then he backhanded him.

Viago shook his head out and kicked Vlad in the stomach. Vlad punched him there back.

Then they delivered a series of punches and kicks. Not paying attention to where they landed. Not paying attention to how much each hurt. And they did. They hurt. A lot. Each one. For a long time.

Vlad lost track of how long. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Even that was troubling. Or it would have been if he wasn’t distracted by getting punched in the head six times in a row. Since when did Viago know how to fight?!

Maybe he didn’t. His punches were turning into flailing slaps as time went on. And he kept losing his balance. Vlad kept seeing windows of opportunity.

But every time he tried to make a finishing move in these windows, something held him back. And then when he held back, he got punched in the face again.

“Stop!” someone called out. Vlad ignored it. He vaguely wondered which one they were worried about. “Seriously, stop!”

A tanned feminine hand reached in between their chests, pushing Viago off of Vlad. With the other hand, Gina held Vlad to the floor. “I said fucking stop!”

Viago sat up and spat half a fang out onto the floor. “Who won?”

“No one, idiots!” The audience jeered. She flipped the bird in their general direction. “Congrats to you two for making me call the first draw since I started doing this.”

“We just started!”

“No, you’ve been at it for half an hour! Does time mean nothing to you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Now the rest of my night is gonna be a special kind of customer service hell. Thanks a lot.”

“It’s not a draw!” Viago paused only to now spit out something that looked like part of his cheek. “I was winning!”

Vlad pushed himself up off the floor. Gina stepped back into the crowd, eyes wide. “You were not winning, idiot! I was HOLDING BACK!”

“That’s exactly the sort of lie you tell when you know I’m right! You know how I know? Because I’m ALWAYS RIGHT AND YOU’RE ALWAYS LYING!”

The next second Vlad had hurled himself at him again. He didn’t even know what he intended to do next. He just knew he was on top of Viago. His hands went to Vlad’s face. Vlad slapped them away. They came back. Vlad bit his left hand and grabbed the other.

Viago hissed and flailed. The men cackled and pounded the floor. Gina was shouting something at them. Deacon was covering his eyes. Viago’s dark blood streamed down Vlad’s chin. Just when he had the thought that it tasted somehow familiar, Viago pulled his right hand free, put it on Vlad’s head, and shoved with all his might.

A loud snap noise echoed over the men. The cheering faded away. Instantly Vlad lost the feeling in his body, and his vision, but did hear, in the distance:

Deacon say “Fuck!”, muffled behind his hands.

Gina scream, “FUCK!”, which echoed.

Viago mutter, “Fuck…” in agreement.

*-*

Deacon peeked out from behind his hands just in time to see Vladislav not come awake, but his neck move without his control, bringing itself rightfully forward in a series of smaller follow-up snaps. The audience watched silently. Gina’s hands were on her long dark hair, pulling at it as she watched, her eyebrows following her hairline upwards.

Once Vladislav’s neck was properly straight again, a spark of something alive came back into his eyes. With a tone of voice Deacon could only describe in his head as _creaky,_ Vlad said, “Um… excuse me.” He sat up and looked around at the audience, seeming to try to gauge their reaction. “Now we can… continue?”

“Yes… we can?” Viago said, his voice shaky, sitting across from Vlad a few feet away.

He looked at Gina. She looked at Deacon. “What just happened?”

“Well…” Deacon stared back into her wide eyes. He could see the entire rest of the room turn to look at him in his peripheral. The audience was slowly but surely morphing from silence into murmurs. Why was it his job to come up with an excuse? “Why would I know?”

“Isn’t that your roommate?”

The murmurs grew louder. “Um... yes. Well, Vlad does a lot of… yoga.” The murmurs stopped again. “So that makes him nice and flexible.” He looked to his flatmates for help, but they were still just sitting there, staring each other down. “Right, Vladislav? You have been doing yoga for years?”

Vlad cleared his throat and turned away from Viago, standing up. “Yes. I do a lot of. Whatever he said.”

“Well, damn,” Gina hadn’t released her hair yet, but she wasn’t pulling on it, just twirling it around her hand tightly, still glancing between all the men. “Sign me the fuck up for that yoga class. You two are still done. You hit half an hour.”

“Who gets the money?” Deacon asked. A few similar questions popped up around them.

“I’ll figure that out during the next fight. We’re behind. Get up there!” She waved her hands at Viago and Vladislav. “Shoo! Go! Seek medical attention!” They slowly pushed themselves up and wandered out toward the exit stairs, Vladislav limping on his still broken shin and Viago holding his bitten hand to his chest. Gina shook her head, tapped something on her smart phone, then spoke into it. Her voice echoed through the speaker above them. “Next up I have D.B. vs. Edward… D.B. vs. Edward... Paging one Edward.”

Deacon made his way into the center of the ring. Deacon almost stepped in a pile of Vladislav’s dark blood. He dodged it and stepped a bit into the chalk line, tonight a pale teal, right where it had been mushed up on an edge where Viago slid into. And again, the men around him were nearly silent. This was all wrong. He looked around at the crowd, wondering if there was someone he could blame for this besides himself. But those four or so young American men from his first night were nowhere to be found.

“EDWARD!” Gina shouted, causing feedback and cringes. “Get your ass into the ring!”

“Is that the tall skinny fella?” asked a beardy old guy Deacon recognized from the week prior. “Tattoo on his neck?”

“Yeah, pale guy, pretty hot.”

“Wait,” Deacon said. “You said tall skinny pale guy with neck tattoo is Edward?”

“Darn tootin.’”

Deacon registered this. He was set up to fight Nick. Then his brain struggled to catch up with the next realization. “And, wait, you think he’s hot?”

“Yeah. I never said I had taste.”

That really boiled Deacon’s dead blood. “NICK!” He screamed into the crowd. “NICK!! GET YOUR SKINNY COWARD DICK ASS OUT HERE!”

“Who the fuck is Nick?” Gina asked. “Where is this Edward guy?” Into the mic, she said, again sending feedback screeching across the room, “EDWARD! LAST CALL!”

She waited a few seconds, then went “Fuck!” again. “Alright, whoever’s next up, get ready! You’re up in two.” She stomped her high heeled boots away from the ring and back toward her desk.

“What, I don’t get to fight?!” Deacon ran after her. “I’ll fight anyone!”

“The rest of the schedule’s full, D.B. And you’re acting weird. You and the others are in cahoots. I don’t know how I know but I know.”

“We are—no, there’s no cahoots! Let me do something! Please!”

“Here,” she handed him his original envelope of cash. “Now please move. I’m about to have a long line of refunds to give out.”

“I don’t want to leave, I want to fight!”

She ignored him. He backed up as a crowd of men gathered around the table. Deacon wasn’t one to get scared by humans easily, but understood that under normal circumstances, a crowd of thirty-plus men cheering for violence was unnerving. Still, he had never been truly spooked by this crowd as right then: they were gathering around the desk in nearly complete silence, just a few murmurs about money and the shuffling of feet.

Gina kept her eyes down as she counted out piles of money one at a time. Deacon saw her hands were tense and unsteady, and said, “Can I help?”

“Yeah, you can leave, Deacon. You’re pissing me off.”

He backed away more. He kind of wanted to punch something—this night was a wreck—but what? He didn’t have a human face for it. Once he made it about halfway up the stairs, he figured he was out of everyone’s line of sight, and that they weren’t paying attention anyway, so he turned into a bat and disappeared into the darkness upstairs.

*-*

Vladislav felt he should probably say something, but what was there to say?

The temptation was there to make some sort of joke about how they must have looked even worse under the ugly yellow street lamp than they did leaving their fight club, but nothing clever came to mind, and he didn’t feel very much like joking.

He glanced over at Viago sitting on the bus stop bench, slowly shaking his head back and forth, pausing every once in a while to squint ahead, as if trying to focus. It must have been one heck of a concussion Vlad gave him. Based on his experiences, those should pass within fifteen minutes. He wanted to feel proud, but didn’t, not in the slightest.

Vladislav didn’t want to watch that anymore, so he limped himself over to a sign with the bus schedule on it. With one hand, he held it for balance, and with the other, he leaned down and maneuvered his shin bone still it stopped looking lumpy and crooked through his pants. Each little click was painful, but nothing compared to when he made one big satisfying snap. His whole leg felt like one massive ache, but he was able to stand upright now. He walked over to the bench, where Viago slid over to make room without being asked.

He felt Viago staring at him for a moment before he shifted around for something in his pocket. When his hand came toward Vlad’s face, Vlad snatched his wrist.

Unalarmed, Viago giggled. “It’s just a handkerchief, silly. Your eyebrow is nearly coming off.”

“Ah,” Vladislav let Viago press the handkerchief to his face, but said, “Why bother? It’ll heal in a minute.”

“I’ll just help it along then.” After a moment, he asked, “Did I do that?”

Vladislav laughed before he could stop himself. “Who else do you think it was?”

“Good point.” He snickered again. Then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Vladislav. That got a little out of hand.”

“In a way, I think it may have been good for us.”

“Yah? Friends should bite each other’s hands open?”

“When there’s tension, maybe.”

Viago had been looking under his hand, staring into Vlad’s eyes, and now he looked up into the street lamp, his dark eyes swallowing up the flickering yellow light. “I suppose there was tension. You’re right.”

“I know.”

“And now it’s taken care of and done. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is. Right?”

“Of course, right,” he said, pocketing the handkerchief. He cleared his throat once more, then said, “I noticed you didn’t use that thing.”

Vladislav knew what he was talking about immediately. He allowed himself the briefest pause to be impressed—he remembered the candle snuffer placed at his door and realized there truly was no use trying to get anything past his flatmate—then said, “What thing?”

“Oh you know, the thing. The fire thing. The new thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Vladislav, did you not learn tonight what happens when you don’t tell me things?”

Vladislav didn’t respond right away. He wanted to say something sarcastic. The last bit of pain fading away from his shin prevented this. All the same, powers had come and gone in his long lifetime. It hadn’t been noteworthy for centuries.

It might be nice if it was.

So he said, “Yes, I found a little movement with fire these days.”

“Vladislav! Pyrokinesis! That’s…” Viago turned his face up to the street lamp, as if his words would be found in that flickering light.

“Dangerous? I know. Perhaps in town there is some sort of fireproofing material, a big blanket maybe that I can find and bring home… what? What is that face? You have something in storage already?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I could check the attic. But no, I was just going to say… I wasn’t going to say it was dangerous. I was going to say it was lovely.”

“This is why I didn’t use it against you.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re easily distracted.”

Viago turned his face from the lamp to Vladislav, but before he could say more, a bat fluttered into their dim light, circling for a moment before coming down towards them.

“Hello, bat,” Viago whispered to it. They watched it circle for a moment. Instinctively, Vladislav held out his arm. The bat responded by coasting down toward him and coming to land on his forearm, perching with its wings wrapped tightly around itself.

Viago leaned his wide eyes toward Vladislav and the bat, pausing only for a moment in recognition before: “Deacon! Hello! Do you want to turn into a human and hang out with us now?” He awaited the bat’s response, and when it didn’t come, Viago’s smile faded. “Alright then.” He turned away, and the bat glided the few feet away from Vladislav and onto Viago’s shoulder. Viago said nothing, just sat himself up into his usual stick-straight position.

Deacon stayed as a bat perched Viago’s shoulder for the entire bus ride home.

When they made it back inside, Deacon flew up to his closet without a word. Viago watched him with more than a little worry on his face, and Vladislav watched Viago to see what he would do about it. Viago just clicked his tongue and checked his watch. “I’ll deal with that in the evening. We should go to bed.”

Vladislav looked at an old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “We have two hours at least before dawn.”

“I know, but I’m tired after all that fuss earlier. That environment is also just draining, if you ask me. Well, actually, speaking of, maybe I’ll have something to drink first. And—oh!” He followed Vladislav’s look and touched his fingers to the clock. “Vladislav, if you’re the one dusting this week, could you please really pay attention to this old guy? Thank you I appreciate it. Okay now, I’m getting my blood. Would you like some? A nightcap for us?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he bopped off to the kitchen. “Something like an O-negative. I’ll be right back.”

The entire night, Vladislav had felt too wired to feel sleepy, but hearing Viago chatter to himself down the hall made something feel right again, and he finally had the ability to relax and feel tired. Just as he realized this, a soft knock on the door woke him fully back up.

He looked through the peephole and instantly recognized the sweatshirt he watched Viago put out into the trap the night before. He opened the door. “Nick.”

Nick looked up at him from under his hood, bags under his eyes like never before. It crossed Vladislav’s mind to get ready to fight, but it just didn’t seem likely. It also crossed his mind to be worried about the fact that they had likely been followed and hadn't noticed. But there was all of the following evening for that, he figured. Vlad just leaned on the doorway. “Yes?”

Nick blinked back at him for a long moment. He was probably trying to read Vladislav’s face, but failing miserably, as most people did. He started to mutter one thing, then went silent again for a few seconds before finally saying, “I’m real tired.”

Vladislav nodded. When he said “Please come inside,” Nick's entire face and body relaxed into a slouch. Vladislav stepped aside and shut the door behind Nick. He wandered over to his chair once they were both inside, but Nick just stood in front of the door, staring off into space. Vlad called out, “Viago! We need three drinks.”

The clinking in the kitchen paused for just a few seconds, then Viago responded, “Yes, yes!” and started clinking faster.

Now it was Vladislav who was having trouble reading Nick’s face. “Nick? What do you need?”

Nick didn’t respond right away, and Vlad was going to ask him to sit, or start running some sort of test to make sure they didn’t have another pesky shapeshifting demon on their hands (they were going door to door frequently, which was really a pain), but Nick said, “You know what I was wondering?”

“What?”

“How come we have to get invited inside places? Like it’s kind of fine, I’m used to it, but I was just thinking like, why?”

“That’s a good question,” Vlad said, knowing he had wondered himself in the past (he certainly had enough time to wonder), but never pursued an answer. When Viago walked in the room with a tray of glasses, grinning so wide at Nick that every tooth in his head was one-hundred percent visible, Vladislav asked him, “Viago, why do you suppose we have to be invited inside?”

Viago served everyone their blood as his smile faded just a bit. “I think I have that in a book somewhere. I’ll go check tomorrow night. Why? Nick, did you wonder?”

“Yeh. Just wondered.”

“I’ll look it up. In the meantime, see that credenza next to you?”

“Yeh.”

“Make sure you pick up that spare key from the little brass dish on the right. Then you won’t have to wonder anymore. At least, not here.”

Viago sat in the chair next to Vladislav, picking up a newspaper and prattling on about the headlines. Vladislav listened, and so did Nick, as he quietly put the key in his pocket and sipped his blood, a faint smile on his face.


	7. This isn't on the agenda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flat meeting!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't send anything to those guys' emails, I have not the fuzziest if they exist and belong to someone 
> 
> Does this feel like a lot of exposition to you? Gee whiz it feels like a lot to me. I don't like to do that so much but sometimes you just gotta. get thru the chap.  
> Normally I might take a little more time to refine this one but my October is hella full and IDK when I'll get to do it again
> 
> Also it has occurred to me that New Zealand may be on different season schedules than me in the U.S.(?) so who knows if the seasons described have been right or wrong this entire time. I already put them in fall/winter so we're all just gonna have to deal with it.  
> I @ myself so you don't have to!!!

_I like happy songs that sound nice_  
_Even with their words like dog bites_  
_Cutting through my hands_  
_'Cause feeling is a rare thing for me_

_I brought a knife to a gunfight_  
_I brought my words to a fistfight_  
_I brought my hell to you_  
_And now the boys are back_  
_The boys are sad_

\- Waterparks, “Gloom Boys”

* * *

Deacon had induced himself into a lovely, dreamless pitch black sleep. It was incredibly soothing to not have to think at all. If he said that out loud, he knew everyone in the world would jump to make a joke that he spent most waking hours also not thinking. This was perhaps his least favorite joke in the world. That’s saying a lot because in case you hadn’t noticed, things annoyed Deacon, especially jokes that weren’t his. And now he was thinking about all the things that annoyed him, because someone interrupted his sleeping.

Viago turned his torso at an uncomfortable-looking angle to try to be on Deacon’s level. “Goodness, Deacon. That must be a very nice sleep. I was knocking for quite some time.”

“What do you want?”

“Good evening to you too. Flat meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Did it ever occur to you…” he growled, reaching out to the shelves for assistance in rotating himself upright. “… that these could be maybe emails or something?”

“I suppose it could.”

“Of course it—really?”

“Yes, there’s some truth to that. And we can email on our phone, yah?”

“Yes. Yah. You can do that. Just email me.”

“Is your phone charged?”

Deacon reached up for where it was on a shelf between a box of Magnum condoms and a dustbuster from the nineties. He clicked it. The screen read his battery at 6%. “Yes, fully charged and ready to go.”

“Okay then, I will leave you.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Viago turned away and shut the closet door with the utmost care. Deacon said, “Huh!” to himself. Maybe Viago was turning over a new leaf. He took initiative, he showed up to fight clubs, and now he was listening to Deacon’s suggestions. This could be very useful.

His phone buzzed. He looked at it, now on 5%, and read his email from Viago.

 _From:_ [ _dandylion@undead.net_ ](mailto:dandylion@undead.net) _  
To:_ [ _deacon666666666@undead.net_ ](mailto:deacon666666666@undead.net)

_Subject: Trying this as an email instead!!_

_Dear Deacon,_

_Flat meeting in 13 minutes._

_Sincerely,_

_Viago_

-*-*-

Vladislav had settled himself into the kitchen downstairs a couple minutes early, fairly certain of how this whole thing was going to go down. Viago would ask they put an end to what he would surely call their “silly new hobby.” Deacon would put up a fuss. Viago would respond exactly how Deacon wanted, and they would have some sort of violent spat until they came to their senses before anyone got too hurt. Then Viago would walk away with a faint sense of victory, Deacon would begin knitting, and Vladislav would inevitably be the one left to figure out what the fuck to do next. After all, they were good for September, but October was around the corner, and with it, a new round of bills. And then there would be November, then December. Then a new year. Then Satan knows how many new years after that.

So he had prepped an old notebook, one of those leathery ones that had a tie around it, the skin flaking with age. On one of the few empty pages, he scrawled a few ideas:

  1. Bank robbery with hypnotism
  2. Hypnotize people at the ATM
  3. Kill the landlord
  4. Stripping



He usually left Viago to run these meetings, as it seemed to make him happy, but it made Vladislav feel in control that day, coming in with his own agenda. He was sort of hoping that the others would agree with him by the time they hit #4 (though to be fair, Vladislav knew nothing of whatever setup they had with whoever the landlord was)—his hypnotism still felt off these days, and he hadn’t thought about which one of them should be the first to strip, or for whom, or where, or what they would wear.

Just as it occurred to him that perhaps being a stripper was more difficult a job than he originally thought, Nick walked into the room, hands in his hoodie pockets, with a quiet, “’Sup?”

And right then Vladislav realized maybe he wouldn’t know what would happen next. He didn’t remember ever having Nick at a flat meeting. “What did you say to me?”

Nick’s eyes shifted around. “… ‘Sup? I just mean, you know, what’s up? As in how are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Good. Guess what I turned into today?”

“You… what? What did you turn into?”

“A rat. Bopped around on the floor for like an hour. Met another rat. Oh yeah, we have rats, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s—hmmm.”

“Yeah, but I think if you just got like an exterminator or whatever it’ll work out. Didn’t get the feeling there were a bunch.”

That wasn’t what Vladislav “hmmm”ed at. He was trying to remember when he first learned to morph into something besides a bat, and maybe what the timelines were of everyone else in the house too. Deacon had only mastered being a dog a few years ago, and the earliest he remembered seeing an owl with Viago’s big brown eyes was the early 2000s. Viago also talked often about the meditative joys of being a mist. But otherwise, Vladislav didn’t remember what else they could turn into. Anything? As for Vladislav, he had a zoo’s worth of animals he could morph into, but not for a while. He needed to get back into the swing of it, and a rat was the only non-bat thing he had been trying for the past few months.

This took a couple minute or so of thought, in which time Nick had poked a thumb-hole through one of the sleeves in his hoodie, and was working on the other. “Nick, what else have you been able to… turn into?”

“Well, when I was on the streets, I tried dog one day. To beg for some food. Then kids kept trying to pet me so I stopped. Oh, also there was owl one day, but I didn’t want to eat rats. Then today I _was_ a rat… full circle.” He pulled at his sleeves, but with no trace of nervousness, just fiddling while he scanned his memory. “Also don’t like hoot noise owls make. Vibrates my throat kinda weird. Do you have blood in the fridge? Can I have some blood?”

“Help yourself,” he said, making a mental note to bring this up with Viago as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure where the urgency was coming from, but he knew not to question those old vampire instincts.

Nick dove in the fridge to rummage, not noticing he nearly smacked Viago with the fridge door when he walked in. “Ah, someone is hungry.”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Nick brought out a large decanter and the last of their little hospital-stolen baggies. “I’ll go find something this week.”

“Don’t worry! You are part of the house now. We will all find a way to contribute.” Viago put a new little notepad on the table in his usual seat. “I need to make a new chore wheel anyhow, with the weather changing soon and all that. That is on the agenda today, and going shopping for blood—Vladislav, remind me to pick your brain about that—and also something else, what was it for you?”

Vladislav nodded, half at Viago, and half at Nick, who was standing in front of the open fridge, sucking down a bag of blood like it was a Capri Sun and he was an eight year old with low blood sugar. “We can have our own conversation about it later. And other things.”

“Yes, I suppose, but also we could bring it up to the group and get their input on it? Four heads are better than two?”

“Yes, I agree, but also we could have our own conversation, as the oldest and wisest, perhaps. Our own meeting. As the elders of the house.”

“Yes? But we should also share our knowledge of things with the younger ones?”

“YES and I would like your private feedback on how to do this?” If there was one thing Vladislav prided himself on (actually, there were many things), it was expressive eyebrow action, and Viago was really not seeing it all.

“Okay, see, why do you not text me about these things, why do you bring this up at the top of meetings? Like the last time when you had the whole to-do with your last, you know, _date_ and couldn’t get the rose quartz obelisk out of your you-know, and you decided to wait until it was time to sit down—”

“Viago can we just have our own meeting later?!”

Nick plopped himself down early on in the exchange to rip open his second blood pack, his head darting between the two as they spoke. “Viago, man, I think Vladislav wants to talk to you later.”

“Talking more later? Don’t you losers ever get sick of this meeting shit?” Deacon walked in with a knitting project so tangled and large he carried it in both arms. Before he had a chance to put it down, he noticed Nick. “YOU!”

Nick stiffened and scooted his chair back, reaching into his hoodie pocket. “Deacon, hold on, man.”

“I will not HOLD ON! Do not tell me what to do! YOU hold on! How many times are you going to destroy this house? And you two—” He glanced between Viago and Vlad. “How many times are you going to let him?”

Viago looked unfazed, tapping his fingers on the table, obviously ready for this fight. “Deacon, what happened last times with the werewolves and everyone was not his fault and you know that.”

“It does not matter if it’s his fault, obviously he didn’t mean to, what kind of sociopath would mean to do any of that? Take down three werewolves, including his best friend, and get your wife eaten in the battle?”

“Thank you, Deacon, we were all there—”

“Only some psycho would MEAN to do that, but it happened anyway, and he was the cause!”

“I know!” Nick said, speaking louder than Vladislav remembered him ever speaking. It echoed into the hallway. Deacon was silenced, but raised his eyebrows and made a grand sarcastic gesture for Nick to continue speaking. “I know I caused it. I needed blood so bad and I wasn’t keeping track and I thought living with werewolves and vampires would mean I wouldn’t try to eat any of those people. I didn’t even know we could eat werewolves.”

“We generally don’t,” Viago offered.

“Unless you are such a moron you hadn’t fed in weeks and got that desperate!” Deacon finished.

“Do you need help?” Nick looked at the pile of yarn as half a ball of it fell to the floor.

“Certainly not help from you!” Deacon tossed his items onto the table. Nick reached out toward him with an envelope. Deacon jumped away.

“It’s just… I wrote you a letter. About how sorry I am. Viago suggested it. I’m not like, that great with… talkin’. Much.” Nick waited for Deacon to take it. After a moment, he said, “There’s also an iTunes gift card.”

“I do not know what that is,” Deacon scoffed, but snatched the envelope and shoved it in his back pocket. “You may have fooled these dummies over here, Nick, but listen closely—I have my eyes on you. See my eyes? Fully on you?” He popped his pale eyes open as wide as they could go, which was really saying something. “You can stay here. After all, you have nowhere else to go. Of course. Who would take you?”

Vladislav sensed Nick was itching to talk back to that, but kept his mouth shut. Maybe he had learned something. Also, even Vladislav had to admit the idea of Deacon’s full attention was a threatening thought.

“This is your final chance. If I sense you will put us in danger one more time, I’ll kill you myself. I don’t care what these two say.” Deacon plopped himself down in his usual chair beside Vladislav. “I’ll end up saving their asses, as usual.”

When Nick carefully sat back down in his chair, Viago made a little hum noise of satisfaction, opened his notebook, and crossed the first item off the list. “Item one – welcome back, Nick! We are making good time.”

“Does not feel like it,” Deacon grumbled as he started sifting through his pile of yarn, trying to find the end of one thread. There were at least four different colors in the pile, most of them very un-Deacon-like pastels.

“Then I’ll just jump right into the next thing. About this little hobby of yours, Deacon.”

“Knitting?”

“No, fighting.”

“I know,” Deacon snorted at his own little joke. “And what judgy thing do you have to say about it?”

“I’m not interested in judging you for it. After all, as you saw, I got caught up in it myself. It’s easier than I thought for that to happen.”

“Then why do you have a whole meeting to bring this up instead of just letting me live my life?”

“I don’t question _why_ you do it anymore, I’m just curious about… _how_ you do it.”

As Viago flipped over to a couple new pages with roughly drawn charts and numbers, Deacon looked over to Vladislav, as if he knew what was going to come next. Vladislav shook his head and Deacon narrowed his eyes.

Still looking at his pages, Viago said, “I know you have made plenty of money. You were able to pay all the monthly bills, and by my estimation of your time outside the house, you couldn’t have been there more than three times. Is that correct?”

Deacon’s eyebrows expressed multiple emotions between doubt and surprise in Viago’s direction, but he said, “Sounds right to me.”

“Sounds right to you, or it is?”

“What?”

“Are you not keeping track of this money anywhere?”

“Why would I keep track of it?”

“That is not really a question, Deacon, please.”

Deacon finished untangling enough yarn that he could loop it around the needles, but he had started retangling the whole thing as he gestured with them wildly, saying, “What is the point of keeping track? Why keep track if all I need to know is it increases every week?” To Viago’s raised eyebrows, he said, “It is simple! When you win a fight that you have bet all the money you have on, then you have more money than you started with!”

“Well, that’s IF you win.”

“I win all my fights,” then, a quick look between Viago and Vladislav. “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“I am not questioning your ability to win fights. Just your ability to plan around it. Is that fair?” Deacon shrugged. It didn’t say much, but Viago continued, “I was just thinking I have some ideas on how to fill in those gaps. That is meeting agenda item number two-point-five. Do you want to hear those ideas?”

“Not really.”

“I do,” Vladislav offered. “It wouldn’t hurt, Deacon, to do things there more efficiently. It can only make more money.”

Vlad reached under his seat for his leather notebook and unwrapped the tie around it. Nick watched him do this, and reached for a pen from the center of the table, then held it up to his palm.

Viago looked at Vladislav’s notebook and made a little hum of approval. He looked at Nick ready to write on his hand and ripped a piece of paper out from his own notebook, handing it to Nick, who took it with the smallest crinkle noise. “Maybe you want to take notes as well?” Viago said pointedly at Deacon’s knitting hands.

“Why? You already have them.”

“It will help you memorize.”

“I don’t need to memorize, I need you to spit this out so I can move on with my day and practice my fights my way, which was working fine before you dropped in.”

Vladislav braced himself for a pedantic response from Viago and an ensuing cacophony of hisses, but Viago turned to the side, let his eyes flash black and yellow for just a couple seconds, then blinked it away. “Alright, then. Well, I have an entire plan charted out, so if you are so eager to move past it, perhaps you can review it on your own time.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Deacon.”

“Viago, maybe if you are so concerned with managing all our finances, you can start selling some of the eight hundred million pointless antiques we have sitting around.”

“You mean the antiques you use on a regular basis, like the tables, and the chairs, and the swords, and…”

“Obviously not the good stuff. Sell some of the useless shit. That you should really have gotten rid of anyway a long time ago.” He quickly glanced up from his knitting to catch a peek at Viago’s reaction. Getting a blank stare back, Deacon continued, “Even before that hoodie dummy over there got us all into a crisis yet again.”

“Such as?”

Deacon’s knitting needles click-click-clicked. “I don’t know.”

“I’d like to know what you were going to say.”

“Maybe that locket you keep holding until you bleed. Weren't you planning to sell that anyway?”

Vladislav knew right away that was the locket Kathryn gave him, with her picture inside. They didn’t own any other silver items. “Viago, you hold that with your bare hands?”

“No… not usually.”

“Why would you ever?”

Viago’s eyes darted between Vladislav and Deacon. His was sitting so upright, his spine nearly curved backward. “It just helps me.”

“How does that help?”

“It helps me feel close to it. That’s all. So yes, I planned to sell it, but went to town and just... couldn't.”

His voice had grown small, and his fingers fidgeted with the papers in his hand. Vladislav felt suddenly very bad for Viago. He often did, actually, but there didn’t seem to be much to use to saying it out loud. What good would that do, just acknowledging out loud how sad someone was?

Vlad looked over to Nick, realizing Nick had been staring at him. Nick broke the stare after a few more seconds and said to Viago, simply, “That’s sad.”

Viago looked at Nick with something like shock for a few seconds, but then he glanced back down at his notebook. “This isn’t on the agenda.”

“I agree it’s sad,” Deacon said. “Some woman you cry over. For no real reason.” Deacon paused in his knitting. Vladislav couldn’t tell if this meant Deacon thought what he wanted to say was so poignant it was worthy of silence, or if he was second-guessing it. With Deacon, it could have been both. After another moment of hesitation, Deacon started clicking the needles again.

“What does that mean?” Viago said with a tone reflecting that he knew exactly what it meant.

“You know how I—come on, Viago. You have not thought about it like this at all?”

“Deacon, for someone who wanted to move on with his day, you are really avoiding your points today.”

Deacon tossed the pile of whatever the yarn was meant to be on the table. “Man, you ship yourself across the sea for the love of one woman, and she does not have the patience to wait eighteen months?!”

“I, no, she didn’t, Deacon, it wasn’t—”

“You stutter like you don’t know I’m right for once! Viago, she was never worth it from the start! It’s time to move on!”

“WHO are YOU to say what is TIME for me to do?!” Now the hovering began. Viago clutched for the table to stay put, but his hands visibly strained. Vladislav pushed down on the table to keep it on the floor. “You don’t know a thing about taking care of yourself! I take care of you, ALL OF YOU, all day, every day, for DECADES! So how do you know what’s good for me?!”

“That’s his opinion…” Nick muttered, suppressing a smile.

“It is not just OPINION, it is FACT!” Still furiously knitting, Deacon hovered up to meet Viago’s height. “Also you do not ALWAYS TAKE CARE OF ME! In case you haven’t noticed I PAY THE BILLS NOW!”

“I DID notice that’s WHY I brought it up in the FIRST PLACE!”

“Only because you are CONTROL FREAK who can’t stand SOMONE ELSE MAKING MONEY!”

They were inches away from the ceiling at this point. “Oh! Funny! I DON’T REMEMBER YOU MAKING MONEY LAST WEEK!”

“YES! FUNNY! BECAUSE THAT WAS YOUR FAULT!”

“WELL MAYBE I KNOW AND MAYBE I AM TRYING TO SORT OUT A PLAN TO PREVENT THAT FROM HAPPENING AGAIN, AND GETTING YOU FOUR TIMES THE MONEY!”

“WELL MAYBE… THAT SOUNDS GOOD, WHAT IS THE PLAN?”

Mid-air, Viago turned himself upside down and grabbed his notebook. “THERE! TAKE A LOOK! AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!”

“OKAY, I WILL DO THAT TONIGHT!”

“OKAY!!” Now standing in his unusual upright posture, but with his feet on the ceiling, Viago adjusted the ascot that kept trying to fall toward the floor. “I will go to my study now and await your notes!” He stomped off, along the ceiling, out the kitchen and down the hallway.

Deacon squished himself in the corner of the kitchen as he opened the notebook and started to flip through it. His knitting project fell onto the table. Nick reached over to pick it up for him, but Deacon waved it away. “Leave it. I messed it up. I have to start over.” Deacon flipped through the pages, making little noises of affirmation. He looked down at Vladislav. “Did you read this?”

“Get down from there and talk to me like an adult at the table.”

“Get down from there and talk to me like an adult at the table!” Deacon said, in high-pitched mocking tone, but pulled himself down along the wall to stand on the floor. “What do you want? You know I was right about the Kathryn bullshit.”

“Part of me agrees with you. You must tread carefully with that topic, though. Your tone could not have been any worse.”

“Well, it’s better than not talking about it all. You bring it up with him then if you know so much about how to talk about it.”

“Maybe another time,” and before Deacon could do more in response than raise an eyebrow, Vladislav quickly said, “What’s in that notebook?”

“He wrote up a schedule for us. What times to go in and fight and how much to bet on each round. It’s like a rotation of some kind, like, I guess we will all get a week off.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Nick said, fiddling with the yarn he still held.

Vladislav nodded in agreement, remembering the sensation of getting punched in the chest by Viago, and enjoying the thought of not having to replicate it anytime soon. “I wonder who will get a break first.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to go talk to him about. It wants to start with me but I have some… unfinished business and so I want to fight for—I don’t know, at least the next couple weeks.”

“Does it have anything to do with that girl?”

“I’ll be back, I’m going to talk to Viago.”

And with that, Deacon was off, walking down the hall, before teleporting just at the last few feet.

Nick clicked the knitting needles a few times, then said, “Is that a good idea? Them talking alone together? After that fight?”

“Yes, they’re fine. That’s just something they need to get out of their systems from time to time. Deacon needs to start some sort of fight every few days or he starts clawing at the furniture.”

“Weird relationship.”

“Watch; tonight they’ll be sitting together, practically on top of each other, yelling at the TV like twins.”

“Cute. What do they watch?”

“ _The Voice._ You didn’t hear that from me.”

Nick snickered and muttered, “Cute,” again a few more times. Then there was nothing. Just the sound of him knitting.

Vladislav looked at what he was doing—an exceptionally neat little doily. “When did you learn to do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“When did you learn to knit?”

“Oh, I didn’t. I don’t know how. I’m just fixing it for Deacon.”

Vladislav watched Nick’s long white finger move with precision and speed. And he wasn’t even looking at them. He was staring at his little empty blood glass. Vladislav picked up Nick’s glass and his own and walked over to the fridge. “I’ll get us some more.”

“Thanks, bud.”

“Anytime. Nick, do me a favor?”

“Yep?”

“See that candle to your right?”

“Yep.”

“Light that for me.”

Nick put one knitting needle down and grabbed the wick between his fingers. When he pulled it away, the flame was lit, and he brushed away some ash from his finger and went right back to knitting.

Vladislav felt a shiver run up his spine. “Thank you.”

“No worries.”

*-*-*-*

“With just two fingers?” Viago pulled nervously on his glove as he flexed his fingers, trying to envision what in the world it must feel like to produce fire from them. He himself could never shake the feeling that his fingertips were ice cold. “He has not mentioned such a thing to me before. Not to you, either?”

“If he did, I would have told you.”

Viago had settled into his seat on the bus, but Vladislav stood above him, clutching at the pole, even though that entire half of the bus was empty. It would have made Viago nervous, were it anyone else. “Well, Vladislav, let’s also remember Nick is not so forthcoming with his words.”

“There’s not being forthcoming and then there’s not telling us when you’ve developed multiple powers overnight.”

“We don’t know if they’re overnight, necessarily.” This was making him feel quite a few conflicting emotions. It was nice to be able to spend a midnight bus ride talking to Vladislav about anything they wished again, but he didn’t understand why the guy was so worried about everything Nick did. “Has he given any indication it will be an issue?”

“I don’t know what an indication would look like.”

“What were signs the last time he had issues?”

“Nothing. That was the problem. It came out of nowhere.”

Viago nodded, turning to look out the window into the blurry dark of the night. “You’re right.” There was the briefest silence. As soon as Viago sensed he was being stared at, he repeated. “You’re right! I said you’re right! There was no detecting it. No planning that could have helped.”

Vladislav sighed before saying, carefully, “Does that have anything to do with all these… plans you’ve made lately?”

“I always made plans. That is my entire thing, I thought.”

“Viago… about what Deacon said earlier…”

“Don’t worry, we talked about that, him and I.”

“What did you say together?”

“That it’s not his business and he shouldn’t bring it up.”

“He agreed?”

“Funny thing about Deacon that I thought you knew at this point—in front of people, he pretends he is fearless. Behind closed doors, his resolve dwindles after little more than a staring contest.”

Vladislav said nothing to that, slouching into the seat beside Viago. Viago wondered why that was the talking point that stopped him. Good thing, too, because Viago himself didn’t really know how to follow it up. It was true, though. Deacon pretended he didn’t need anyone, and that his flatmates drove him nuts, Nick most of all. But he hadn’t moved out since he followed Petyr all those years, even now that Petyr was long gone. If he was as annoyed as he acted all the time, he could leave.

Thinking of Deacon reminded Viago they had multiple episodes of _The Voice_ to get through on the Tivo.

Thinking of the Tivo reminded him of Stu, who had patiently set it up for them two years ago.

There were so many things to think about, it seemed, that Viago felt he should really write them down. A to-do list. A to-think list. And prioritize them how? By importance? By urgency? By how loud the thoughts were and how warm they made his head feel?

If it was by that last criteria, then by far the most pressing one was wondering why the two of them always sat so closely together on buses when there was plenty of room. Was it a safety thing? Was it kind of nice to feel someone else’s dead flesh and know theirs felt just as cold, sensing this even through their clothes?

For some reason, it was also particularly satisfying to sit so close to Vladislav. Viago admired the way he let himself slouch and unfold and just sort of sit however he wanted. He couldn’t imagine what that felt like, to be able to just do that.

Vladislav said something to him that he didn’t catch. “I’m sorry, what now?” and the fear that Vladislav was back to reading minds shot to the top of his to-think list.

“It’s our stop.”

“Ah.”

Off they went, walking side by side not toward downtown, but towards the more upscale suburban part of Wellington. It was a longer walk than the ones they took trying to find a fun night out, but not an unpleasant walk, even with a fairly awkward silence.

They stopped in front of one of those blood donation trucks, parked in front of a church. Vladislav spat on the ground. “We need to find one of these that isn’t parked in front of one of these fucking buildings. Or just start raiding the hospitals again.”

“I told you we can let Nick do that. He says he’s done it recently.” Viago traced a hand along the cursive lettering on the side of the vehicle. “These buses are so enticing. I see why humans would donate blood.”

“It’s not enticing. They do it to feel better about themselves. And there’s enough mortals trying desperately to feel better all the time, so we’re good just using these trucks for now. Forget my hospital idea.”

“If the humans only knew,” Viago replied, before knocking on the door. “Yoo hoo!”

The exact type of handsome, smiley young man you would want to take your blood donation opened the door. His name tag said _Ted._ “Hey fellas! We’re wrapped up for the night and just taking care of some prep for tomorrow. We open at eight A.M. so we’ll get you all set up to donate first thing in the morning!”

“That’s pleasant, but I must insist…” Viago stepped up to look deep in his eyes. With a wave of his hands and a slight lowering of his voice: “You will lead us to all the blood you have and let us take whatever we want.”

His smile did not falter. “Of course! Come on in.”

Once he led them inside and towards a freezer in the back of the bus and unlocked it, Viago waved his hand in front of the young man’s face again. “Now you will also sit down on one of these nice cots and have a nap and not hear us saying anything.”

“Yeah, this a tiring job…” Ted said to himself, putting his feet up on one of the cots and curling up. “Should have stuck with vet school…” and then he was asleep.

Viago unfolded the Wellington Hurricanes tote bag he was keeping in his pocket and held it open. Vladislav tossed packets of blood in the bag. “Gentle! I don’t want this tote getting ruined.”

“I just want to make this fast.”

“Why? We have hours before sunrise.”

“I have an eerie feeling about this area of town tonight.”

Viago hummed, feeling curious but not wanting to really push it. Of course he wanted to validate his friend, but Vladislav probably got suspicious and eerie feelings at least once a week, and it always seemed to be just when he felt like being a homebody. Viago thought it was kind of endearing, but it didn’t always make for solid conversation.

Just before he shut the door behind him, Viago glanced at the sleeping technician on the cot. “Should we bring him back? Save these bags for rainy days and have something nice and fresh in the meantime?”

“That nurse? No. He looks like he’ll taste like vanilla icing.”

“That sounds nice.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“Vlad, it’ll be easy. He’s already hypnotized.”

“Leave. It. Be.”

“Gosh, your _mood!_ ” Viago started rummaging in the bag as they walked toward the bus stop. “Let me find you a nice full one to snack on. You must be hungry.”

“Stop,” Vladislav grabbed his arm.

“What?”

“Hear that?”

“No?”

“Listen carefully!”

Viago scanned the night sky.

“Not up there, fool. Here on the ground.”

“Vladislav, I hear nothing.”

“Silence!”

Viago huffed once, then obeyed. He listened, but truly heard nothing except the distant noises of human society. Crowds of people a few blocks toward downtown, some crickets in the trees, a chilly wind. And then he could hear a car passing them by. He looked toward the road the car was coming down. It swerved around something in the road further up the block, stopped near the lump in the road, then quickly turned and disappeared into the night.

Viago whispered, “Are you suspicious of cars now?”

“That’s the second car to do that exact pattern. It swerves to avoid whatever that is, then it stops to look, then it speeds off like it’s seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps it’s seen a vampire. Perhaps two of them. It’s cold. Can we go home?”

“I’m going to see what that is.”

“Are you eating roadkill again? The Beast is really losing her sense of creativity with these spells. That’s the third time for the roadkill-craving one.”

“It has nothing to do with her!” he growled, not stopping as he walked toward the pile.

Viago could see the bus at their stop wait for a second, then drive away. “Well, that was the last bus. I am not carrying this tote as a bat and crashing into a tree or something, so I hope that coat you’re wearing will be alright to fly in. Or we could walk. I guess this is the last night for some nice exercise before it gets too cold.” Viago looked up at the moon. It was nearly full. “At least we have some light out, I suppose. Vladislav, when was the last time you talked to The Beast? Did you sneak in another night with her and I didn’t notice? Is that why you are in a mood?”

“Viago.”

“I won’t pry about it. I was just curious.”

“Come here.”

Viago didn’t hesitate to walk over to where he was. He was so used to Vladislav’s vaguely suspicious tone that he nearly heard his own voice in it sometimes, but a straightforward worried tone was unusual.

He looked down to see what it was. “Oh, this poor… puppy?”

“No,” Vladislav said. “That’s no puppy.”

Viago knew this, but said it out loud for Vladislav to confirm what he was seeing.

The dead animal in the road was definitely a werewolf, but one in easily the worst shape Viago had ever seen. It was a full grown adult, but so thin its ribs were showing through patches of falling-out fur. It was covered in burns in varying stages of healing. The burns were in the shapes of chains. It was missing many teeth. And one eye was gone.

But none of those injuries seemed to be due to death and decay. There were no bugs on it to be seen. It had no smell except stale drool, the usual urine, and advanced infections. And the blood coming out of its mouth in a pile was glistening and fresh.

Viago tried to look for something familiar in its face. Either this was a stranger, or it had been too long since he’d seen one of the werewolves he knew. Or it was too injured or starved to recognize. “Is this… one of Anton’s, you think?”

“I don’t think so. It’s wearing some sort of necklace. They don’t do that… it would have broken in the transformation.”

Viago finished that thought in his head—Anton would have had his companion take off their jewelry. Anton would have taken care of this creature.

“Actually, it looks like a tag. Maybe it is a dog? A strange dog?” Vladislav peered closer at it, but when Viago reached down to look at the tag. Vladislav pushed his hand away. “Don’t touch. If this thing is not one of the mortals’ creatures, you don’t know what could be wrong with it. Curses, poisons, plagues. Could be anything.”

“I have my gloves. I’ll be careful. I just want to see what it says.”

“Throw that glove out after, then.”

“Nooo this is real leather!”

“Viago.”

“Fine,” Viago handed the blood tote to Vladislav and crouched, keeping far away and reaching out his arm as much as possible. He flipped over the tag—for such a sick-looking creature, the tag was nice. Shiny, almost too shiny. He had to step a little closer to look.

“No, don’t go any closer.”

“Just a little—it says—” He squinted. “Grand Properties.”

“Okay, then leave it, come on now.”

“The other side says—”

“Viago, drop it!”

“ _If found, call Gina, at 917_ — hey!” Vladislav yanked him away and he landed on his butt. “These pants are such a nice cream color and I can’t sit on the street in them! Honestly, Vladislav! Why did you do that so suddenly?”

Vladislav ignored him.

“Oh, come on, what was it? What did you see?”

“Don’t bother. Let’s just get home.”

“If you tell me, I’ll tell you a secret.”

This made Vladislav pause enough for Viago to catch up. He laughed in a way that struck Viago as insulting. “You have no secrets.”

“That is _not_ true. I contain multitudes.”

“Go on then. What is your secret?”

They stood in the middle of the deserted street, staring at each other. Viago had not thought this far ahead. He made eye contact with Vladislav’s stern eyebrows. “It’s really good. So whatever you’re going to tell me had better also be juicy.”

“If it has anything to do with laundry, it’s not a good secret.”

Viago cleared his throat to buy time as he scrapped the idea of sharing the secret that he did not like the way his flatmates folded towels. “No. It is not to do with laundry. It is. To do with.” What would grab Vladislav’s attention? “The Beast.”

Vladislav scanned his face for so long that Viago had to take a few deep breaths to feel calm, as if any of that breathing would get oxygen flowing in any way whatsoever. Finally, Vladislav said, “There are no secrets to be had there because I ended things. Once and for all.”

“No, you, what? How, when?”

“I sent her a letter.”

“… That’s all? No big dramatic fight? No chasing each other down the block? No orifices filled with shiny pointy objects?”

“The idea of doing that was just exhausting.”

“It wasn’t before?”

“Before, it was thrilling. That’s how I knew it was done. I thought of seeing her again the night after we made up that last and final time and couldn’t get out of my coffin the entire evening.”

Viago fiddled with his gloves. He would have liked to have read the letter. Or at least known when it was sent. This happened so often over the years—just when he thought they were best friends and could tell each other anything, Vladislav veered off on his own yet again. “How do I know it’s really over between you two this time?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, and realize over time that you never heard from her again.” A faint smile danced on his face. “It sounds like bliss to me.”

“Never again? Do you mind if I just reach out her real quick about this blood pudding recipe she said she—”

“What she does now and who she talks to is none of my business, because as I said, it’s over. You may speak to her freely.”

“Alright. Maybe I will.”

“What secret did you think you had about her?”

Viago shrugged. “Just that I thought you should really end things permanently. So I guess you beat me to the punch.”

“I think it’s time we both moved on.”

“I think so, too.”

Vladislav looked at him, that faint smile still present. “So we are bachelors. Yet again.”

Viago couldn’t help but grin back. “Single and ready to mingle, as they say.”

“As who says?”

“Mortals.”

Vladislav nodded, mulling this over. Then he stepped toward Viago.

After a second step, Viago took a step back. He didn’t want to step back, but it seemed like what he should do. When Vladislav stepped again toward him, really getting into his personal space, he felt some unease. “Vladislav… do you need something? Some blood maybe? We have plenty…”

Vladislav slowly reached his arms up toward him. Viago braced himself for another fight, desperately scanning his to-think list for what he said or did wrong. He didn’t want to fight again. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. So whatever Vladislav wanted to do, that was fine. Viago just stiffened, ready for pain.

Moving like he was made of wood, Vladislav slowly put his arms around Viago’s shoulders, stepping one more foot forward to almost meet their bodies, but not quite.

Viago stood straight like a flagpole, arms stuck at his side. “What are you doing?”

“I know mortals also… hug… for reassurance.”

“Ah,” Viago said.

“I haven’t hugged in quite some time.”

“Yah I see that,” but Viago didn’t hate what was happening. It was very awkward to have someone’s arms around you while their chest and pelvis was still a good six inches away, but awkward was a thing Viago could handle. He reached one gloved hand up to pat Vladislav’s arm in return. Looking over his friend’s shoulder into the dead of night, he asked, “So… what was it that spooked you? Back there with the dog?”

“I’d rather not tell you just yet.”

“But you will.”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

Vladislav took his arms back. The way they moved made Viago imagine a creaking noise coming from his joints. “… You’re just going to let it go?”

“I’m just relieved you didn’t lie again.”

Then they started their long walk back home. It was quiet, and cold, and still, but it was not awkward. They didn’t feel a need to talk. About halfway home, tired of walking, at nearly the exact same time, they picked up their feet and flew the rest of the way.


	8. Like, a feeling?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone journals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I was like "soon the plot will become less convoluted and there won't be too many more chapters" lmao fake news  
> Literally when I was writing this chapter I was like "When is this gonna simplify" THEN I REMEMBERED I AM WRITING IT!
> 
> I'm gonna really try not to let another full month go between updates if I'm gonna keep making the plot complicated  
> Next chapter is probably gonna be the most confusing one yet but then I think the action will really chug-a-chug along
> 
> I also want to wrap this up before I start posting a Colin Robinson fic I'm planning but maybe I'm just too impatient for that

_Don't you dare stare, you better move_

_Don't ever compare_  
_Me to the rest that'll all get sliced and diced_  
_Competition's payin' the price_

_I'm gonna knock you out_  
_Mama said knock you out!_

\- LL Cool J, "Mama Said Knock You Out"

* * *

If Viago weren’t too busy to journal on September 23rd, 2017, there would have been quite a bit about everyone’s posture, because he never remembered seeing Deacon in such an upright stance until that night as they made their arrival into the former music store. It added a good couple inches to his height. Viago made a mental note to let Deacon know about that, but it was instantly erased by his utter fascination with what Deacon did next.

He walked his upright little self to the edge of Gina’s desk and dropped a tote bag on it (Viago recognized it as his Wellington Hurricanes souvenir bag, but didn’t feel compelled to protest). Gina looked at the bag like it was a piece of roadkill. “Dude. What is this. You bringing your money in bags now? What kind of dick-measuring--”

“No! No. That is a gift for you.”

Her face softened in a way Viago had maybe never seen a woman’s face soften before… a way that suggested she didn’t want it to. “A gift?” She grabbed at the bag and pulled out what was inside—a small-ish blanket in a mix of pastels that Viago was barely aware Deacon owned yarn in the color of in the first place. Viago thought it made sort of a weird foggy rainbow color, not something he would want, but Gina was visibly fighting a smile on her face (and losing). “D.B… dude… what is this?”

“It’s a little table cloth, about the size of this desk, I thought. So you could put your feet up and not scuff it or anything. I notice you like to put your feet up.”

A noise like trapped air escaping a pipe came out of her, and she couldn’t fight her smile anymore. “It's really been a hot minute since I had a homemade gift… I don’t know if I can put it up now… but! Anyway! How are you guys tonight! Do you want to fight?!”

Deacon was so happy he actually hopped a couple times. “Yes! Immediately! Whoever you have!”

Viago remembered the schedule that he had just tried to review with Deacon on the bus ride over. Obviously it didn’t sink in. Not a surprise. “Deacon, remember, this is your week off?”

“What? No, I don’t need that. I want to do it tonight. Someone else can have mine. Or not, I don’t care.”

Viago wanted to argue with his plan being tweaked so quickly, but Gina was already writing all their names down in a few different time slots (with a flourish on each), and Deacon was cracking his knuckles (while grinning his face off), and with a sudden awareness of the situation, Viago didn’t have the heart to ask Deacon to stand down.

And as for the rest of the night, again, they were very busy on this night out, but the next day when he finally got a chance to sit down, Viago’s journal went something like this, roughly translated from German:

_September 24 th, 2017_

_Regarding the events of September 23 rd, 2017_

_What a successful night overall!_

_Vladislav fought a young man, very handsome and endearing, really. Pleasant boy to chat with until Vladislav kicked him in the jaw and his face swelled up very grotesquely and he had to leave immediately after he lost. I believe his name was Peter. Made me miss our Petyr a little bit again. Though this guy was not like him at all. Very lovely and acrobatic, interesting jumping roundhouse kick, though it may pay to let him know that this kind of move is pretty to look at but expends your energy._

_There was a worried-looking young man named Diego who came and fought Nick. For a scary little second it looked like he might win, as he had Nicholas in some sort of headlock, but then he bit him and got free and regained control of the situation. Very quickly. And very easily. I thought maybe he had gotten blood from the bite. But how could he? It was so quick! Never mind._

_And then Deacon fought a man, name of Christopher, so very much taller than him and more muscular, but Deacon took care of it very quickly. Latched on to him and held on until it was done, throwing many punches all the while. It took quite a few minutes but at this point, with this particular hobby, I will let Deacon do as he wishes—he seems to know enough. I think if Deacon had attended formal schooling of some kind as a child, he would have been very good at sports, if he was able to channel that aggression._

_I fought nobody. I took Deacon’s day off. I went to talk to the girl up front who Deacon likes so much. She is very nice to talk to, especially about hair (she recommended a conditioner to me I wrote down somewhere!), but got very tired of me when I asked about how the business works. I understand. Running the front desk at a place like that must be very draining._

_That is all for that evening of fighting. What a peculiar thing to find myself writing about! If you had asked me what I thought these journals would look like a year ago, well, it certainly it wouldn’t be about this. I suppose, in some ways, that’s fine._

_Sincerely,_

_Viago_

-*-*-

On September 29th, 2017, Vladislav finally decided to dig out one of his leather-bound notepads not for the sake of erotic sketching, documenting a session of torture, or writing down to-do lists of whatever inane chores Viago had requested in a given week, but to simply write down his thoughts. For the record, the only reason he was doing this was because journaling was the only inane chore Viago requested for that week. It was such an easy request, and he looked forward to a week of being left alone to pursue art and nothing else.

He wrote the date and then nothing else.

This felt a touch bizarre. Normally when he went to write one of his poems, the words just flowed out. And sure, some were better than others, but at least poetry guaranteed something came out on the page. Painting was similar. Not this. He was staring so intensely at the page that the space between his eyebrows was beginning to ache. 

He went over to his end table and dug out the ancient Nokia phone Stu had gotten for him. Deacon had long since gotten himself an iPhone, but Vlad never felt the need to upgrade. As he punched out the letters in a text to Deacon, they lagged, and he suddenly understood mortals and their attachment to constantly updating their technology. This was beyond obnoxious, and growling at it did nothing to help it along like it usually did for humans.

Finally, he sent this message to Deacon: _did u try this journaling activity?_

He went to sit back down at his desk to await a response. No sense in trying to start the journal again until Deacon responded. Maybe Deacon would have a good idea. It was rare but not impossible-- without Deacon’s suggestions, Vladislav never would have tried the fight club, or pegging.

His phone vibrated. It was Deacon responding: _Why the fuck would i do that_

Fair enough.

He tapped out a message to Viago. _I don’t know where to begin with this journaling nonsense._

Nearly immediately, a response: _What do u mean?_

_What am I to write_

_Whatever you like!_

Fuck was that supposed to mean? With another growl, he tossed his phone toward the end table. It missed and clunked to the floor in a way that suggested it was two pieces now. No matter. He wasn’t really using it much.

Maybe if he wrote a letter that could get him started. A letter to who, though? There was no one who only communicated by letter that he wished to talk to.

Then, without wanting to, his brain suggested maybe he write a letter to Pauline. He threw the notepad now across the room. It clattered against the wall just above his dresser, where a black pillar candle was burning. One of the loose crumpled papers fell onto it. It caught fire right away. Without any worry, Vladislav sighed and got up to put it out by just closing a fist over the fire. Could nothing be easy these days?

That gave him an idea. He walked over to the phone that had clattered to the floor. Thankfully, it was still on, just missing the outer shell. He tapped out a message to Nick, the same one he sent to Deacon.

Nick answered quickly. _Not yet. Why, did u_

_I am trying but I don’t understand it_

_Like, where to get started?_

_Yes_

_I feel that. I didn’t want to because I was sorta scared_

_Why would it scare you?_

_Lol idk_

Vladislav waited for more, but in typical Nick fashion, he only said what he knew, and that wasn’t much. He felt suddenly silly for even trying to ask Nick. Why would someone like Vladislav the Poker be asking people like Nick and Deacon for help from the simplest activity? He took his phone and marched back over to the scattered papers on the floor. How hard could this be? He pushed his pen to a new paper. He wrote down the date. He wrote down the location. And then he decided he would start by simply writing why he was doing this. Because Viago requested him to. So he started writing, _Viago--_

His phone buzzed with another text from Viago himself. _Heard a noise. Everything alright?_

He answered, a simple, _Yes._ And then decided this whole journaling thing was a complete waste. He picked up each piece of paper from that notebook and held them in his hands, experimenting with each one to see how quickly or slowly he could burn them to ash, or if he could weave a pattern of fire in the page, or do sudden stops and starts.

It took the entire hour, the last one before sunrise, that he had originally dedicated to giving journaling a try. Now the sun was bound to finish rising any second. Even though he did more or less what he set out to do with each individual loose page of the journal, this hour still felt like a waste. Maybe a couple hundred years ago, one hundred even, Vladislav would have felt some sense of regret out of more or less wasting an hour, even though he had so many to spare. But this kind of thought just didn’t make him feel anything anymore.

As he got up to go to his coffin, brushing off the little piles of ash from his lap, he heard the soft pats of Viago walking up to his door. He waited to see what would happen.

Viago slid a new empty notebook under the door and walked away.

Vladislav threw it on his shelf, ignoring the clanging sound of something else falling to the floor with it, and climbed into his coffin. It occurred to him that the following night, it would be time to go to the fight club and make money again. Excitement was the wrong word for what he felt, staring at the dark top of the coffin lid, but at least it was something he knew how to do.

-*-*-

Deacon would really like you to know that he journaled because HE wanted to and HE independently thought of the idea to do so, it had nothing to do with Viago nagging him to do it all the time. It wasn’t even journaling, really, for the record. Not like he was keeping a diary. He decided to just write down some strategies that were working best from fight club. And Deacon didn’t really fancy himself one of those annoyingly pensive writer types, so he just sort of threw a bunch of bullets down after the date.

30-9-17

  * Good to punch humans in collarbone – good snap sound, fight over soon after, hurt faces funny ha ha
  * Not good to punch humans in neck – fight over too quick, no fun, choking sound not so good
  * Vladislav seemed tired today fight took forever ??? the fuck
  * Viago fun to watch fight in his fancy clothes
  * Note to self tell him to stop slapping, looks like a pussy
  * Nick fun to watch but then he keeps biting someone then he ends the fight really quick after that, fuck is that about?
  * Nick is so stupid



And then in case someone was looking at it, not that anyone would go burrowing in Deacon’s closet for much, lest their hands come across something cold and mysteriously wet, Deacon flipped forward a few pages and bulleted some ideas for what to knit next.

For 7-10-17:

  * A scarf
  * gloves
  * thong
  * Hat??? Beret? What do girls wear
  * Who knows here what girls wear these days?
  * Maybe Nick?
  * No fuck that



-*-*-

With some of that week’s money, on October 1st, 2017, Viago made an early evening trip to a hardware store early in the week and came back with all sorts of “goodies”, he called them—fresh wallpaper and glue, caulk and a new caulking gun, new pulls for the cabinets and drawers. With spring in his step, he made his way around the house, focusing on a new room each day. He would seem to the untrained eye like a very happy guy, but Vladislav still couldn’t shake the feeling something was off with him. He kept thinking about the writing he saw in Viago’s coffin, about learning that he clutched the silver locket so hard it made him bleed and burn at the same time, and about how he managed to find a home improvement project every single day.

So one night, Viago laid down some trusty towels in the hallway, ready to start putting a new stain on the wainscoting. Vladislav approached him. “What in the hell are you wearing?”

Viago jumped a bit. “You still manage to scare me once in a while after all this time, Vladislav!”

“You are easily spooked.”

“Yes, well, this is one of Deacon’s jumpsuits. He’s letting me use it to paint and stain and such. He said he might go clothes shopping this week.”

That was a funny thought, Deacon interacting with teenagers selling jeans. Almost as funny as how Viago looked in that jumpsuit. It was way too short for him, revealing wrists and ankles. And for some reason, he still put a cravat on. “Do you need help?”

“Not if you're busy, but it might go faster with a partner if you would like to join!”

“What do I do?”

“Exactly what it looks like. Dip the brush in here. Run it along the edge before you put it on so it isn’t too much. I’ll start down here. You start up there.”

Vladislav took a brush and a little paint before he slowly hovered up to the wood borders at the top of the wall.

He wondered how he should start talking about any of those things he had questions about. He wanted to ask what Viago journaled about. Or if he wondered what Nick was doing when he lost them on the walks home from the fight club. Or if he still thought sometimes about that dead possible werewolf they found in the road, and what happened to it, and what the tag was for, and where the other werewolves were. _Why are there so many things on that list?_ When had it become so difficult to talk to Viago?

He decided to just blurt them out. He turned to the other vampire. “Viago, I—what? What are you looking at?”

Viago had put down his stain brush gently on a towel and was just staring up at Vlad with those familiar wide eyes. “Oh, nothing, it just seemed like maybe you were getting ready to say something important. I figured, perhaps I should not be staining wood at that time.”

Vladislav laughed at this, aware it came out sounding more bitter than he wanted it to, but figuring Viago was used to that. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh no! You could never disappoint me, Vladislav! What would you like to talk about?”

Holy fucking shit, was Viago never unhappy? Vladislav had countless worrying things to bring up, any number of which could be about Viago’s grief, and here he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a jumpsuit that didn’t fit, grinning up at him like an idiot with his teeth caught on his lip as if they didn’t fit in his mouth even after hundreds of years of being there. Ridiculous. Vladislav felt his feet touch the floor. He was tempted to tell Viago just how ridiculous he looked in that suit and those teeth and that smile—it was what he usually would do, after all!—but instead, he heard himself say, “Would you like a new coffin?”

Viago looked all at once surprised, confused, and thoughtful, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling to think. “Ummm… well, I wouldn’t _mind,_ but did we not get some new ones a few years back? It might be a little bit of a waste so soon? The hinge is still working fine.”

“It’s not a waste if it would make you happy.”

“I know it’s tempting because we have all this money coming in now, but I was thinking maybe instead of spending any more on home projects next week, I would put some in a little savings account for us. That way, in case there’s an emergency—”

“Not from our money for the house. Not from your personal savings either. I have a little money put aside. I will buy it for you.”

“ _No,_ Vladislav, you don’t have to—”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s just not necessary.”

He turned to face Viago, still standing above him, and invoked that tone he knew he could whip out whenever he wanted to, but rarely used. That one of simply authority, of having lived life longer, and being able to just give an order by leaning down close to Viago’s face and saying, “I will buy it for you.”

Viago’s eyes were ready to pop out of his head. But he just said, “Whatever you like!” and turned back to the wall.

Without another word, they went back to work. Vladislav lifted himself back up toward the ceiling. He wondered if they were going to work in silence for the rest of the time. But then Viago let out a little, “Well, shit!”

Vlad looked down to see that Viago had gotten a small smear of dark stain on the wallpaper. He muttered something about going to get a clean hand towel, and when he put the brush aside, Vladislav only needed to see that split-second movement to realize Viago’s hand was shaking. And when he did eventually return with a washcloth, they did finished the wall in complete silence.

-*-*-

_October 7 th, 2017_

_Hello journal!_

_What a pleasant feeling to be finally getting good at this. And I mean both the journal and the fighting with men. Then again, after mine tonight, when I asked Deacon his thoughts, he said not to go so fast and to wait to punch people in the head and places like that for after I’ve been doing it for a few minutes. He said he doesn’t want us to draw attention to ourselves. He took the night off this time! The schedule is all off but I don't mind-- he seemed to very much enjoy staying at the desk figuring out the money with that girl. Also when we came up to him afterwards to get feedback. Truth be told, I don’t know how much I need his feedback, nor does Vladislav, but it’s nice to see Deacon so happy._

_Here is a thing I may have noticed: perhaps an extra camera or two above the ring. I remembered there being one, of course. But three? Maybe I just never noticed. No matter; the mortals did not seem to mind, and they have more to lose if footage of them doing this got around, what with their jobs and social media and such._

_Deacon also suggested we all leave at different times, that maybe if we don’t behave like such a neat little unit all the time, it would also draw less attention. So Nick left quite early, as soon as he was done, and then I took the bus back with Vladislav (before Deacon, he stayed behind, said he wanted to count the money before he left, thank goodness he’s getting better about that kind of thing)._

_Vladislav was quiet, I suppose, but not more quiet than usual. Overall, his mood has been quite good lately! Not sure what this is about! Perhaps that new pyrokinesis business has done him a world of good. Time will tell. It always does!_

_Sincerely,_

_Viago_

-*-*-

The following evening, Vladislav had slept through the day for the first time in recent memory, waken up not by stress or nightmares, but by the faint sounds of Viago’s alarm and his anxious feet making the rounds. Feeling well-rested, he made his way downstairs, fancying a cup of cold blood from the fridge before figuring out what to do with the rest of his evening. As soon as he hit the kitchen, he saw the fridge was open. There was a stranger in front of it. A strange woman. He jumped in a start.

So did she. “Fuck! Your period costumes make sneaking up on me that much scarier! You guys actually wear that around the house?”

He needed a moment to recognize her. “Are you the woman from the…”

“From your dreams?” she deadpanned. “Hell yeah. Also from your very weird nighttime hobby. Remember?” She waited for him to register, but he didn’t, so she waved like they were seeing each other from far away. “My name is Gina… I know it’s not as interesting a name as Vladislav but we’ve met each other like five times.”

“Ah! Gina!” he gave a slight bow, which she returned with a slight curtsy, pulling out what Vladislav recognized as one of Deacon’s more misshapen sweaters (a long mauve lumpy piece) over her skinny jeans. “Apologies, we just don’t have many… nighttime visitors.” _Who are still alive to tell the tale,_ he wanted to finish.

“I guess I should be happy to hear that?” she said, turning back to fridge. “I’m starting to get that you guys live what I’ll generously call an alternative lifestyle… but is there anything caffeinated here?”

“There might be… tea somewhere…”

Viago started to walk into the kitchen, eyes on the TV Guide he carried, with a mug in his other hand. “Yo, mein herr, you guys have caffeine?” she said, startling Viago so much he jumped and sent a splash of blood from the mug onto the doorframe. “Ew, never mind. That tea doesn’t really look like my thing. Never mind. It’s too late for coffee anyway, I guess.”

“Oh drat!” He put his things down on the kitchen table and reached for a rag. “I’m sorry, Gina! I didn’t mean to jump. I guess I’m just not used to guests at this hour.”

“Alright, I get it, I broke the seal,” she looked suddenly self-conscious, tying her knotted hair up before crossing her arms tightly. “Well, you guys have a nice rest of your very strange night. I’mma head out. See you next week ?”

“Yes, of course,” Viago said, barely looking up as he scrubbed the wall. “Have a lovely night.” He scooted aside to let her pass, then paused his cleaning to watch her leave, squinting and stepping a bit towards the front door. When it slammed shut behind her, he darted back into the kitchen. “Vladislav!”

“I know! She must have been here the entire day!”

“I didn’t even see one bite mark on her neck!”

“How did Deacon hide her so quietly in his _closet_?”

“Why did she come home with him at all?!”

“Because I am best lover in New Zealand undead world!” Deacon swaggered into the kitchen, arms up as if he was ready for yet another erotic dance, but then he dropped them in a great show of exhaustion. “Word must have spread all the way to the mortals’ world. That’s how _good_ it is.” On that last phrase, he stopped in front of a kitchen chair and put one leg up on it, angling his crotch towards his flatmates. “As for my closet, Vladislav, you think you are the only vampire here capable of illusion?”

“I don’t want to engage in banter with you while your dick is pointed at me.”

“And while your foot is on the chair,” Viago added, making his way to the sink to rinse out the rag he was holding.

If anything, he rubbed his foot more into the chair and angled his dick more skyward. “You losers are just jealous because you have not seen pussy for however long… Vlad, not since the last time you went crawling back to the Beast--”

“At least I picked one of our own kind,” he answered, sitting in the seat across from Deacon. “Mortal pussy is weak and tasteless, like a cheap wine.”

“If last night was a weak and tasteless wine, then call me a poor drunk.”

“This is a repulsive metaphor,” Viago said over the running water. “I’d rather not hear it continue, if that’s alright.”

“And you! You are jealous because the last time you got pussy was…” Deacon trailed off. Vladislav was shooting him a glare that would scare the devil himself, but Deacon didn’t need to see it to know he shouldn’t finish that sentence.

For a moment, the only sounds were the creaking of the chair as Deacon sat in it and slouched and against the wall, and the running water from the sink.

Finally, Deacon looked over at Vladislav before rolling his eyes and saying, “Viago… sorry… I just meant—”

“That’s fine,” he quickly replied as he turned off the water. “It sounds like you had a lovely day, Deacon.”

“It must have been more than lovely if he did not kill her,” Vladislav said.

“I am capable of all sorts of restraint,” Deacon said, before grinning wildly and following up with, “And not just the sorts made of rope and chains. But I am also skilled with that. You can ask her when you see her next week.” He hopped up a bit out of his slouch, as if a lightbulb came on over his head. “Ah, see! That’s why I did not kill her! We need someone to run that business so we can keep making money!”

Viago’s usual toothy grin appeared as he put a decanter of blood on the table with three glasses. “You don’t need to explain it to us! I see why you like her.”

“No, fool, I mean, of course I _like_ her enough. To do business with her, you know, whatever. But the _like_ you are talking about, that is foolish mortal child’s play. This is just— listen, a man has desires. And sure enough, one day, when we are all done and made enough money, then I will drink every last drop of her. And kill her. Duh.”

Vladislav poured his glass of cold blood. “You like this girl so much—”

“I just _said_ I do not _like_ anything except—”

“Why don’t you just make her a familiar?”

“Ooh! That’s a good idea!” Viago said. “Someone to pick up the dry cleaning.”

“And then he can keep her enslaved to his heart’s content.”

“NO! No one is putting her in any slavery!!” Deacon smacked the table as he said this. His little glass of blood threatened to spill.

Viago steadied the glass, not losing his smile. “Just bonds, then.”

“Do not talk about her and bonds!”

“Ah! So it was _you_ who was in bonds all day then?”

“NO but I am no pussy. I could be in bonds if I wanted to. I am secure enough in my masculinity to do that. You losers should try it sometime.”

Vladislav sipped his blood. “Only if she’s doing it.”

Deacon popped out of his chair so fast that he went too far and hit the ceiling. “This is why I tell you nothing! You’re both so old and out of touch, you think everything is still about either crushes or courting or concubines!” He shouted at them from there as dust and plaster sprinkled on them. Vladislav and Viago just covered their glasses. “There are things in between! That’s where I am! Just somewhere in between where it is NO BIG DEAL!” He pulled himself along the ceiling through the kitchen, like a spider. Once he got to the hallway, the dip in height on the door frame almost caused him to collide with Nick as he entered. “Watch it, tall-ass!”

Nick didn’t seem surprised Deacon was on the ceiling, just vaguely interested. He watched Deacon make his way down the top of the hallway, then disappear into the living room, grumbling all the way. A few seconds later, he sat at the table. “What’s with him?”

Viago waved his glass around. “Our own little Deacon brought home a girl—which is nothing unusual—but this one he seems to really like.”

“That’s cute!”

“I know!”

“Who is it?”

“The girl from the fight club.”

“What girl from the fight club?”

“Oh, you know, the one that runs the desk.”

Nick registered this and then laughed. “Nah, not her.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me you have a crush on her too?”

“Since when are humans the desired group?” Vladislav asked. “Remember when sea witches were all anyone wanted to date?”

“Too sandy for me,” Viago said.

“Nah, I don’t, I mean, she’s pretty, but…” Nick looked between them. “She’s married.”

“What now?”

“She has a ring. Or she does at the club, didn’t see it today. You never noticed?”

Vladislav chuckled. “I don’t think that matters much to Deacon.”

“Nah, nah… why would it…” Nick pulled at his sleeve.

Viago’s eyes popped open. “What else? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, doesn’t she kind of give you like, a feeling?”

“Not really.”

Vladislav chuckled again. “Deacon seems to have that covered.”

-*-*-

Viago mentioned to Nick that he should journal as well, and Nick was touched by the suggestion, but didn’t want to mention that he didn’t have anything to write in, and wasn’t one-hundred percent sure where to get it. The idea of walking into the wrong place like a discount store in the middle of the night, asking for a notebook, and not being able to find one was too cringey. So Nick found a note-taking app on his phone. If you could open them, they would look like this, each of them trickling off as the night hours turned into morning and he fell asleep:

1/10/17 6:20a.m.: _Viago said journal and dk if this is what he meant but might work ok for now. Don’t feel too much to write. Feel hungry I guess. Might go get some blood from fridge after Im done. Didn’t do much today. watched tv. newscasters said pets gone missin in area. What’s that about? Im not even stealin those anymore. also said stuff bout stores closing and property values. Who knows. Sux for those folk I guess… must be hard to run a business. Bet whoever runs the fight club is makin loads. u know wat. If they sold the blood that came offa people in the ring, I would buy. Seems like waste now just gets on the floor and rubs around. Oh I guess then they would know I was a vamp. nvm. Blood sounds good. Feel hungry I guess. said that already. Ok more journal tomorrow, nite_

3/10/17 5:40a.m.: _miss havin sex. Wanna have sex one of these days. Got money now. Could get prostitute. Shouldn’t eat her tho. Like what the shamwow guy did. ew_

4/10/17 4:47a.m.: _was thinkin, really how do we have sex anyway? cause we don’t have that pulse from the heart so where does it come from. Like how do I get my boner if the blood don’t flow. Thought that was from blood flowin there real fast. Wonder if this is in a book somewhere or on google. Don’t want to google vampire boners. Seems maybe kinda gay idk lol_

6/10/17: _saw weird cockroach today tryin to get into a hole, thought it was one of em from Madagascar maybe but nah just Vladislav as a roach_

9/10/17 6:50a.m.: _been meanin to ask other guys if they think about blood so hard sometimes even though they drank some a couple times while they were awake that night already? Like think real hard. I mean like I was thinkin bout blood then my brain just sort of goes like “blood blood blood” haha then it wont stop. Ha. Then it goes like blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blod_

_blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blod blod blod blod blod bldbldldbjkfslb;lbllfblblbblbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb_

9/10/17 7:31a.m.: _fuck it need it now goin out to get some!!!!!!!!!_

9/10/17 7:38a.m.: _so forgot it was dawn. Went outside to find some blood stuff. Forgot it was sunny. Burnt my hand on door knob when opened door. But then guess wat. Didn’t lite on fire! Like I thought it does usually. So weird I left it out for a minute on the door knob. Hurt yeah, duh, but just wanted to see how long it would go. Minute or so, I’d say. Blistered up a bunch then finally on fire after 1 st minute was all done. put it out on in potpourri bowl on table in front. Need to buy viago some more. Will do in evening. Wack off now then sleep_

9/10/17 8:01a.m.: _really tho like how’s my blood get to my dick_

-*-*-

The six evenings that then passed were filled with soothing activities. Vladislav painted what he considered his best works yet while a couple rooms down the hall, Viago churned out pots and plates with professional-level symmetry.

With no familiar around, Viago gently requested Nick to run a few errands for them, and he did it with nothing but quiet contentment, bopping around town in the night to bring back whatever they needed: watch batteries, dish soap, light bulbs, lubricant, frozen bags of blood from hospital basements. He always made sure to come back well before dawn, quietly shutting the door behind him, earbuds in.

And Deacon was in truly rare form, the happiest any of them remembered seeing him in years (or at least, happiest while not causing destruction). He couldn’t focus on any hobbies—he would pick up yarn or a sketch pad or a cross stitch pattern, only to put it down ten minutes later, leaving a mess behind him each day. But when Viago asked him to put these half-finished projects away, instead of snapping, he would wander over to the incriminating object and throw it into a trunk or his closet, humming a happy tune from his homeland.

On the evening of October 13th, the three of them sat around the living room watching a travel show. “Watching” of course meant Vladislav watched it and Viago kept trying to ask questions about everyone’s dream honeymoon locations. Deacon tuned in as much as he could between looking at his phone every time it vibrated, snorting at the message or just grinning like and idiot, and tapping away a message in response.

When Nick came in, dropping a plastic bag from the pharmacy filled with condoms, warming lube, and pumpkin spice scented air fresheners onto the credenza, he nodded to this flatmates and headed off toward the guest room, when Deacon called out, “What are you listening to?”

Nick stopped and said, “Huh?” not because he didn’t hear, but because he couldn’t believe Deacon was starting a conversation with him. He took a tentative step back into the living room.

“What—” Deacon spoke, emphasizing each consonant. “Are you listening to? In your headphones, fool?”

“Oh, just My Chem.”

“Mykem? Who is that?”

“My Chemical Romance.”

“I have maybe heard of that.”

“You probably heard this song,” Nick held up his little mp3 player to show what was on the screen—a little icon of dark artwork, skeletons marching in a parade.

Deacon pointed to the art piece. “I like that!”

Next, Nick handed over one of his earbuds. Deacon put in his ear, then turned his attention back to his phone. Nick waited for a signal he could leave at some point, but Deacon gave none, so Nick slowly settled to take a seat on the floor. He gave Deacon distance, sitting a few feet away, the white cord of their shared headphones stretched between them. But even though he only had one earbud, and was sitting on the cold wood floor on his crossed legs, Nick didn’t look uncomfortable, not in the slightest.


	9. Do I make you nervous?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So! I know this is chapter is shorter than usual! And I know I let a full damn two months pass between updates! But I'm just dropping these little Nick bits here so I can come by and drop a much bigger meatier chapter very soon. This time I think it is much more doable because I really do have like 70% of the next chapter already written. 
> 
> I was just going to keep waiting and drop like Mega Super Jumbo Chapter in like a week and a half or something but then I realized that the next bits of plot are going to be way too big and complicated to make people have to read that much in one chapter. Maybe other people don't care but I tend to get visually overwhelmed by huge blocks of text so. Just trying to be considerate is all.  
> Also I have job stuff to worry about on top of some Very Scary political stuff that has been happening lately, so I also worried if I didn't upload at least a little bit now, there may not be any updates, for, like, ever
> 
> so here we are! be patient!! we love u nick!!!

_Nothing is perfect, but your imperfections are quaint_  
_And your love is worth it and for that I will wait_  
_And though you hate me when you have a turn_  
_I drive you crazy, but you always return_

_If I fall short, if I break rank_  
_It's a bloodsport, but I understand_  
_I am all yours, I am unmanned_  
_I'm on all fours, willingly damned_

\- Raleigh Ritchie, "Bloodsport"

* * *

All things considered, Nick was pretty content, which was pretty worrying. It seemed always that the second he started to feel satisfied, things fell to shit. Proof: girls leaving him when he revealed how much he liked them, becoming a fixture in the nightlife scene only to get turned into a vampire, getting comfortable with Stu’s return as a werewolf only to lose him to his own lack of self-control.

The night of October 14th had started out so nice, Nick having popped down to the kitchen for a nice quiet moment alone, gorging himself on three bags of blood, then shoving the evidence down at the bottom of the trash can under the trash bag itself like he had been all week (it was Deacon’s week to take out the trash, so Nick estimated he had another month to go before he had to find somewhere else to stash them). He thought maybe if he drank until he felt obscenely full, then he wouldn’t feel any cravings all night, even if he saw fresh human blood. Like the way runners carb up the night before a marathon. Right? He didn’t really know. He didn’t run much. Not when he was a human, at least. He ran more lately than ever.

He opened his fourth bag of blood, which he pretended was his first, and then marched downstairs to help dress everyone in the H&M separates he picked out for them earlier that week with their extra money. It went so well; the other guys took most of his advice, and the only near-slip-up in his whole nothing-is-wrong image was when Deacon motioned to his sippy bag of blood and started to say something about getting his own, which Nick ungracefully interrupted by nearly shouting, “Don’t worry, it’s my first, it’s just my first. Tonight my first. I mean.” Deacon looked like he wanted to make a nasty comment, but then Viago asked for help with his first ever pair of skinny jeans (“I cannot find where the suspenders are supposed to go into in here! There is no room! I need assistance and maybe tomorrow a tailor!”) and distracted them.

On the bus ride over, Viago prompted Vladislav to chat about his first ever time having sex in midair, a story he was obviously happy to share, despite the glances from a young man holding a toddler in the front of the bus. It was an amazing story, full of helpful tips too (“You will come upon the inevitable thought that it is more passionate in a rain storm. I will save you the trouble and tell you lightning is not your friend in the air.”) Every time Deacon made a snappy comment about his own airborne escapades that threw Vladislav’s rhythm off just a bit, he would give Nick’s arm a conspiratorial shove. Nick could not wait until the day he really hit his vampire sex stride and had his own stories to share.

It was so nice being out and about with them, that the second they got off the bus in the heart of downtown, Nick knew in his heart right away something was bound to go wrong any minute.

As soon as he had this thought, Viago appeared next to him, his voice quiet as they trailed behind the other two. “What’s the matter, Nicholas? We just got here and already you look so sad.”

“What? Nothing.”

“Are you sad I decided not to wear the sneakers you gave me?”

“No—but mate the dress shoes really don’t work with the jeans you know— but it’s fine, really fine.”

“Okay. I will wear them next time, I swear. With those socks you gave me with the mangos on them.”

“Those were avocados.”

“Oh I see. Of course. Is there anything else on your mind?”

It occurred to him then that it might help to talk to Viago more about the insatiable bloodlust thing. Viago had been around the block and maybe had a solution in mind. But that probably wasn’t the time. Also the idea of talking to Vladislav about anything that would put the group at risk still didn’t seem like a good idea. Vladislav had barely said ten words to Nick since he returned. But then again, did he say more than ten words a day to anybody?

Viago cocked his head to the side. His big unblinking eyes were more than a bit disconcerting at an angle. “Such a long pause makes me believe the answer is yes.”

“Maybe later on we could talk.”

“Okay! Remind me and I can talk to you! Anytime.”

“Got it.”

“Do you need to do a pinky swear on it?”

“Nah you're good.”

Viago slipped inside the door to the music shop behind Vladislav, but Deacon reached out and grabbed Nick’s bicep. “You, wait,” he whispered.

Nick resisted the urge to swallow hard, since that would reveal his nervousness, but so would a mouth full of drool, and _Aw fuck when did this stuff get so hard—_ “Y-yeh?”

“Why are you stuttering?”

“I – I don’t know. What is it?”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear that a lot. But I have a question for you.”

“… Yeah?”

Then he took one of the most uncomfortable pauses of Nick’s entire life, which was really saying something, and was even saying something for interactions just between the two of them. Deacon’s dark eyebrows were raised nearly to his hairline as his pale eye darted between Nick’s dark eyes staring back. Finally, he whispered, “How does my hair look?”

“It looks good.”

“You promise?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said, nervously aware of how much of a lie that in itself was. He really wanted to switch the subject away from his lying as fast as possible. “Can I ask _you_ something?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really like that girl downstairs?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“How the fuck should I know?” and then Deacon threw open the door. _Fair enough,_ Nick thought, and followed him.

Viago and Vladislav were waiting for them inside, Viago having carefully cleared a small path of instruments. “Now we will make less noise.”

Grinning like an absolute fool, Deacon purposely went over and smacked a banjo with a clang, ignoring some noises of protest from Viago, then making a beeline for the door to his fight club.

They made it down the stairs, Deacon almost skipping toward the desk. But he stopped short. Viago crashed into his back and looked up to see what stopped him.

The betting desk was being manned by a man. Not just a man, but one that was decidedly not Gina—this guy was meek, pale, wore pastels, and wasn’t looking at his phone.

Vladislav had joined them at that point. “Are we here on the correct night?” 

“Of course!” Viago looked like he wanted to argue about the implication that he misread dates, but then he took one look between Deacon’s face and the desk and said, “Don’t worry, Deacon. I bet she just got tied up doing something.”

“NO, I know, I’m not WORRIED, why would I be worried? I told you it does not matter to me!” Deacon fixed his posture and walked to the desk, but on his way, quickly glanced at his phone for messages. When he hit the desk, he growled, “Who are you anyway?” 

“Hi. I’m Bret. I heard you guys might be coming.” With no discernible emotion beyond the slightest hint of unease, he reached out and handed them an envelope, a return address listed only as _Grand Properties._

Deacon half-pushed, half-smacked it away. The guy responded with a very small, “Hey,” but Deacon ignored it. He stuck his pale finger in the guy’s face. “Who are you? Where is the usual girl?”

“Her name is Gina, I think.”

“Yes I KNOW her name, where is she?”

“Dunno. I just got this job. I work at a temp agency. The boss just said to come here and wait for four pale guys with interesting clothes and give them this envelope.”

Deacon reached down to pick up the envelope, keeping his eyes on Bret the whole time, which made picking it up quite the endeavor. “What’s in this thing anyway?”

“Dunno, it’s illegal to read other people’s mail.”

Deacon opened it, keeping his eyes up until the last possible second.

“What’s it say?” Bret asked.

Deacon’s eyes scanned it for just a few seconds, then he went, “Who fucking cares,” and thrust the letter behind him at whoever was closest, Viago in this case. “You are still running who fights in these matches, yes?”

“I guess.”

“Every free spot you have, I want to fight in.”

Viago’s eyes shot back toward Deacon from the letter. “No. Deacon. That has nothing to do with what we have planned—”

“EVERY FREE SLOT LET ME GO IN NOW!” Deacon mimed writing in the air with fury.

Bret watched his miming hand with the mildest fascination, then turned around started writing in “Short Letter Guy” in random free spots. “You know, man, that means you’re going up next.”

“Fine!” Deacon stomped toward the ring, today a pale orange circle of chalk.

Nick’s first instinct was to follow Deacon. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he did admit he anticipated some pretty entertaining fighting coming up. Still, it seemed like there was unfinished business behind him – he was pretty interested to see what the letter was.

But as soon as he turned to Viago and started asking about it, Viago had already taken it up with Vladislav, and they were hunched over it a few feet away, deep in conversation. It reminded Nick of the way his mom used to talk to other adults in the family about bills, turned at just the right angle so he wouldn’t be able to hear or see anything in particular. The memory was so distinct and familiar it made his stomach turn a bit, so he turned back to the guy at the desk. “Do you have any other open slots for me to fight in?”

“No. He said to put him in all of them. So that’s it.”

Something about this guy was not right. He was either terminally meek, or under a trance of some kind. “Who’s your boss anyway?”

“Grand Properties.”

Nick waved his hand in front of Bret’s face and repeated, “Who’s your boss anyway?”

“Grand Properties!” he said a little louder, then busied himself looking through some rogue envelopes of cash he must have collected and failed to organize. 

Either this guy wasn’t lying or he was very good at it. Or he was immune to hypnosis. Or Nick wasn’t good at it after all. Any number of possibilities. Hard to concentrate with a short human staring up at him, a few feet away. Something about his face was off, like it had been rearranged and hastily put back together, especially in the nose area. Like Nick, he had a smattering of tattoos, peeking out of his hoodie under his sleeves and around his collar. Nick took a cautious step back, but said, “Cool scorpion on your neck, man. Where’d you get that done?”

“You’re Nick, right?”

Now what? Why couldn’t this just be one of their normal nights of fighting? Why did people have to talk to him? “Yeh.”

“You’ve been coming here a lot lately, right?” Nick heard his accent, obviously from somewhere in the United States, which for some reason put him on edge, even more than an American accent normally would (which was quite a bit).

“About a month or so, uh-huh.”

“Having fun?”

“I guess.”

“You run with those vampires, right?”

Oh.

He read Nick’s face and reached up, grabbing his shirt collar to pull him down. “I know. Everyone else here thinks you’re just a bunch of freaks with costumes. But I know what the fuck you are and I’m going to fucking do something about it. We’re onto you. We’re all onto you.”

“Excuse me,” Vladislav said, appearing with no warning. out of the shadows. Nick figured _Excuse me_ was the least intimidating phrase said he could ever think of, but when Vladislav said it, it sounded so intimidating in a way he couldn’t describe, it was almost otherworldly.

The little guy let go of Nick right away and cringed like he had been hit. He raised a shaky hand towards Vladislav’s face, but thought better of it and dropped it, exiting into the crowd. He disappeared behind a wall of screaming men, giving Nick one last nasty look over his shoulder.

Nick looked at Vladislav. “Bet he peed his pants,” he said, even though Vladislav didn’t look like he was in the mood to view this as the compliment Nick intended.

* * *

It wasn’t as fun as Nick thought it would be to watch Deacon tirelessly tear apart man after man in the rings. He wasn’t entirely sure what wasn’t so fun about it. Was it the fact that the crowd started out cheering, but slowly got quieter, until by the time four A.M. rolled around, they were nearly silent, everyone leaving the building one by one, muttering to each other as they split off down the street? Was it the relative emotionlessness about Bret, that new desk guy, as he counted out Deacon’s money with care? Or was it the spooky way Deacon would repeatedly meet some sort of nasty would-be death, his skull being slammed into the cement or getting a vicious kick right in his neck, but just push himself back up to smack the shit out of some poor sucker until he gave up, then resorted to screaming that same submission? Was it the way that all the fun seemed to be zapped out of their ride home?

Deacon, covered in layers of blood in various stages of drying (some of it his, most of it not), had made quick work of hypnotizing the bus driver (a simple hand wave and a growled “Don’t worry about it.”) Nick thought he’d be bragging about his ability to win against all six of the people that crossed his path that night, or at least how much money he made, but when they left he just handed the thick envelope to Vladislav to hold on to, and sulked the ride home, periodically checking his phone. At some point he leaned over and spat some dark red liquid on the floor. Viago reached into it and picked up what appeared to be a molar, handing it to Deacon. Deacon shook his head, so Viago held onto it for the bus ride.

These were certainly confusing, troubling thoughts to try to sort out, and he was wondering if he would ever be able to sleep, until he remembered that helpful journaling stuff Viago got him into. He reached for his phone, the blueish light filling up the makeshift coffin Vladislav made for him years prior, out of a repurposed credenza he dragged home from a victim’s home for that purpose.

But before he could open up his notes app, he saw he had a text. Cool! He hadn’t received texts for quite some time.

It was an area code starting with +1 917. Nick recognized it as an American area code right away. He opened up the message, trying to figure out who the hell he knew in the States, but the first sentence zapped just about any clear thought process he had.

_Dear Nick: We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet, but I know a little bit about these cravings you’ve been struggling with, and I think I can help._

Nick was so startled he dropped his phone on his face. “Ow! Fuck!” He remembered then that the other day Viago had said something about phones in the coffin being poor sleep hygiene.

Without even reading the rest of the message, he was dying to take it up with the others in the house immediately. That would mean having to get into this whole insatiable bloodlust thing, but obviously it wasn’t a secret anymore. Who the fuck besides the people in that house would know about it? Some other vampires from town maybe? Not likely – none of them came anywhere near their late-night gig. Nick couldn’t really blame them.

He started to push his coffin lid up, ready to get out and talk to his friends, but then he thought to check his phone – it was 3:30 P.M. Still a couple hours before he could safely leave his coffin. He lowered the lid. Could he wait that long?

Yes! He was strong. He could wait it out.

Of course.

While he figured out what to do.

He checked his phone again. 3:32 P.M. Okay maybe he couldn’t wait it out.

He started to push the coffin lid up just a bit again. Even though it was day, what were the odds they were exposed to sunlight in any real way, living in that old little black hole they called a house? Viago kept the place locked up tight, drawing curtains tightly closed across the house every morning when he went to bed.

He let it clunk back down when he envisioned the lecture he would probably get. A lecture from Vladislav on avoiding sunlight would probably suck what was left of his soul out of his body. As would any lecture from Vladislav. Nick vaguely wondered when he started being so freaked out by Vlad and wondered what it would take to stop. Late night fishing trip, maybe? Was Vladislav into fishing?

Nick tried to picture the area just outside his coffin, and any possibility for sunlight exposure. His coffin lived in the basement where Petyr once did. It had been cleared out, leaving nothing on the floor except Nick’s new coffin. He didn’t know when his flatmates got rid of any remnants of Petyr, or what happened to those items, but he realized they did a pretty good job of it. On the first night Nick spent down there, he checked the window that led to Petyr’s death. It had a brand new blackout curtain installed over it, and if you lifted up the blackout curtain, someone had crudely shoved a series of damaged but effective locks and hooks through the metal window frame. Someone had also come along and painted it black, leaking paint all around the wall, like a kid who failed to color inside the lines. With the vision of these blurring black lines around the window frame in his head, Nick felt a second burst of courage, and he pushed the coffin lid all the way up.

Petyr was crouching in the corner of the room.

He threw the lid back down, catching his finger tip in. “FUCK, SHIT!” He clutched his hand to his chest. Back in the day of being human, his finger would have probably been throbbing, but now it just felt like an awkward circle of concentrated pain. Between that and _whatever the flying fuck_ he just saw, it was hard to think straight.

It couldn’t have been Petyr. Right? He was just seeing things. _Oh, wait a minute, no._ Seeing things was not a better realization. As if he needed any other problems.

His coffin lid shifted a bit. Someone was trying to open it. He reached up to try to get some sort of grip to hold it shut. His fingertips scraped against the wood but he couldn’t find anything.

And then it was thrown open. But it was just Deacon standing over it. In that familiar, kind of ugly, kind of adorable sweater with the moon and the trees. His hair was majestically disheveled.

“Hey idiot. Clunking your coffin up and down like a shitty little drummer boy. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Nick wanted to hug him he was so relieved, but knew that would probably result in a punch in the face. “Oh. Okay. Hey, aren’t you two floors up?”

“Yes. I was getting a drink from the fridge if that’s alright with you?”

“Course.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Fuck’s the matter with you? You can’t sleep either?”

“Guess not.”

“There’s almost nothing in the fridge. Is that because of you too?”

And now, faced with the perfect opportunity to talk about the text he received, the overwhelming cravings, and the general sense of impending doom, Nick reached for the right words and just came up with, “Yeah. I’ll get some more soon.”

“No shit. No more clunking, eh?”

“No more clunking.”

“You probably woke up Viago. He’s right above you. He won’t come out and do anything about it because he’s scared of the sunlight. Also because he babies you. Not me.”

“No, I appreciate that.”

“Do you need anything else or were you just making noise to be cute?”

“Do you know what that letter was that Vladislav and Viago got tonight?”

Deacon seemed to have trouble even remembering what he was talking about. He needed a few seconds, baring his fangs as he scanned his thoughts. Nick wondered if he bared his teeth so often out of some sort of territorial or protective aspect, or if maybe Nick wasn't as alone as he thought in still feeling a little like his teeth didn't fit in his face. After his pause, Deacon said, “Oh yeah, the thing that front desk moron had for us? It was an invitation to join someone called a Mr. G. at Big Kimura next week. We will probably not do it because it’s the same night as the fighting.”

“What does he want?”

“It didn’t say. Something about a business opportunity. Bullshit, I say. We have business now.”

“Oh. Why did they get that, you think?”

“We _all_ got it. It was for all four of us. You should have just asked them.” Deacon stared at Nick’s blank face for a few seconds. “Hey, never let those two fool you into thinking that they are so much smarter than you. They are just older, that’s all. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Good night.”

Just as he started to lower the coffin lid, Nick said, “Hey Deacon?”

“What?”

“Have you gotten any weird text messages from Americans lately?”

“I wish.” And then Deacon let the lid fall down with a woody _clonk._ It sounded very final and authoritative, that clonk, so Nick just lay there looking up at the old wood. He listened to Deacon stomp up the stairs. Even though he knew what he had seen in the darkness was just Deacon, not Petyr, Nick still stayed in his dark little cocoon through sunset, and an extra hour after that. He didn’t even check his phone.


	10. Nearly Anything Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger makes an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a big fat chapter full of overwhelming amounts of information for you to sit on as it's anyone's guess when the next update will come 
> 
> No, I do not know if I have their actual history/backstory correct, I made it up as I went, plz don't write me objecting it, just like....... go write your own lol. Jem & Taika did not make it clear. Go @ them lol

_In the clearing stands a boxer_   
_And a fighter by his trade_   
_And he carries the reminders_   
_Of every glove that laid him down_   
_Or cut him till he cried out_   
_In his anger and his shame_   
_"I am leaving, I am leaving"_   
_But the fighter still remains_

\- Simon & Garfunkel, “The Boxer”

* * *

Once upon a 1946 newspaper ad, Deacon and Petyr showed up at the doorstep of Vladislav and Viago, just after midnight, with nearly no possessions to speak of past the dusty clothes on their backs.

At the time, Vladislav himself hadn’t known Viago for too long. What he did know, he didn’t _mind,_ but he sensed that Viago could be a very demanding head of a household, so it puzzled him that Viago was so insistent they try to fill the house they had just stumbled upon with people who may very well not take to him the way Vladislav happened to.

The house was large, almost cavernous in places, but well-maintained at the time, the surfaces polished and dust-free, the wallpaper fresh, the windows clean and clear. They learned from looking through records in the house that it was the last possession of any value of an elderly long-time widower, one who had little to do other than maintain his house, all alone, day in and day out. But in the nighttime, this guy would go to speakeasies to try to bed young, well-dressed men. One night, this well-dressed young man happened to be a certain seventeenth century dandy vampire who had finished an eighteen month shipment in a coffin a mere two days prior, so he was feeling hungry enough to let himself be flirted with and taken back home by this man, only to kill him and then decide it was a nice enough place to stay in for him and the dark, brooding, gravely injured ancient vampire he met merely _one_ day prior, bleeding heavily from his latest falling out with the Beast.

Everything this fancy stranger did confused Vladislav. What kind of man was kind enough to risk spending his first days out of that long coffin ride nursing a hostile, starving, much more powerful vampire, a stranger, no less? What kind of man would be that generous, then turn around and manipulate some lonely old homosexual out of his house and his life?

Apparently, the same kind of guy who put an ad out in a newspaper looking for more roommates, ones who “would not mind a more nocturnal lifestyle.” Obviously he hoped someone would read between the lines, and it worked – extra fortuitous, Vladislav now figured, since he never knew Deacon to be able to read between the lines ever since.

No, Deacon was not subtle. Whereas Petyr was a quiet, convenient, if spooky roommate, one who was satisfied with just a stone coffin in a stark basement, Deacon seemed incapable of doing anything below full volume. That first week was beyond difficult, Deacon and Viago getting into constant shouting arguments about not leaving the door open, not leaving corpses on the front door step, not flushing the toilet when Deacon would spend nights forcing himself to drink wine and beer, then vomit blood for the entirety of the day he was supposed to be resting for afterwards. It was incidents like that that made conversations like this:

 _This man is no vampire_ , Vladislav would growl to Viago in the kitchen, not bothering to keep his voice down. _He is an animal. That creature in the basement can stay but we must get rid of this other one._

 _Vladislav, it’s not that simple,_ Viago’s accent was even a bit stronger back then, and he spent the first years of their relationship relishing saying Vladislav’s name, trilling all the consonants with musicality. _He has attempted to drink alcohol twice now, though he knows it will hurt him. He must have been through something awful._

_I don’t care. He’s trouble._

_He’s troubled is what he is._

Fine, Vladislav figured at the time. Let this fussy busybody try to break through to the younger vampire. He wouldn’t succeed, surely, and they would piss each other off enough that soon they would have an argument that would prove to be fatal, and the house would nice and quiet. Vladislav was sure this would happen three weeks or less into their attempt at being flatmates. He anticipated he would need to be around for this climactic fight, not just for entertainment, but to make sure Viago was the one to live through it.

He was surprised when _four_ weeks actually passed, Viago and Deacon yelling at each other all the way. Most often, the trigger was Viago asking some innocent question about Deacon’s history, where he came from, what he liked to do in his spare time, and so on. Sometimes it was just over a reasonable request like not leaving the door open. Sometimes no one had to say anything. It just happened.

Their ultimate battle finally seemed to arrive on Deacon’s thirty-first day of living in their Wellington house. For the afterlife of him, Vlad couldn’t remember exactly what started the fight, but he remembered the last few images of it like they were projected inside his head.

Deacon stood at the platform at the top of the stairs, hurling everything breakable he could find down towards Viago. The hurled objects were punctuated by Romanian-accented demands for Viago to _Leave him alone, fuck off already, go fuck yourself, mind your business or I’ll kill you in your coffin while you sleep, fuck you you prissy dandy fuck!_ and so on. He missed by a long shot every time he threw something, but Viago still cringed with each crash, staring up at Deacon on the platform with intensely furrowed eyebrows and wet, wide eyes.

When Deacon chucked the last vase he could find, toward something dark he couldn’t see, some unforeseen goal at the bottom of the stairs, this one actually did clip Viago in the forehead. It bounced off and shattered against the wall. Vladislav came out from the shadows, deciding now was the time to step in and put an unfortunate end to this small, angry vampire at the top of the stairs. But when Viago recovered and looked up with fury, Vlad stepped away again. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Viago looked ready to kill.

But he didn’t.

Viago used a bare hand to wipe away a negligible amount of blood from his brow, then turned up toward Deacon and shouted from the bottom of the stairs,

_I won’t let them do anything wicked to you!_

Vladislav didn’t know what _them_ meant, or _wicked_ for that matter, or, frankly, how Viago planned to not _let_ them do it _._ He wasn’t sure Viago knew either. Deacon obviously did, though. He threw himself down to the bottom of the stairs, hissing and spitting like a caged rabid animal, but by the time he hit that last stair, the hissing had turned into ragged, uneven sobbing. Amongst the splintered glass and porcelain, Deacon dropped to all fours, crawling forward to hug Viago’s legs, sobbing dark red tears of blood onto his precisely polished shoes.

Viago didn’t look triumphant, nor upset. He just leaned down, hinged at the hip, to rub Deacon’s shoulder with a soft, pale hand, muttering a soft, pale _There, there._ The same hands, the same _There, there_ he used when he coaxed Vladislav out of whatever object he had been impaled on the night they met. All these clear memories, and he couldn’t even remember WHAT he had been impaled on exactly. Just guiding hands and _There, there,_ soft, pale memories to help him sleep through the days, even as stress-driven nightmares hounded him in his coffin. It always helped to think of that, even when he had visions, even when he missed the beast with every fiber of his being, even when his phone buzzed with the vibrations of his flatmates’ texting their never-ending needs. _There, there._

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**Deacon has changed the name of the group to _OG coolest vampires_**

Vlad: How did u do that

Deacon: Do what

Vlad: Change the name of the text message group

Deacon: Google it

Vlad: what

Deacon: Use Google

Vlad: What is google

Deacon: you have used it all the time! What do you mean what is google. It is site for searching

Vlad: Fine. Keep your secrets.

**Nick has been added to the group.**

Deacon: ugh

Deacon: who did that

Vlad: What do you mean “who did that”… there are only two people who could have done that

Deacon: three of us in the group chat idiot

Vlad: obviously, you didn’t.

Viago: Me I did! I added Nick to the group chat! Everyone welcome Nick to the group chat, please. :)

Vlad: welcome nick to the group chat

Deacon: obviously, I wouldn’t have added him, you’re right about that

Viago: Deacon he can read these!!

Nick: thats fine idc

Deacon: whats idc

Vlad: why don’t you google it

Deacon: fuck u

Viago: I have gathered you all here to say flat meeting in 15 minutes

Vlad: no

Deacon: ugh!!!!

Nick: y ?

Viago: What does that mean?

Viago: Oh, I see. I sounded it out loud.

Viago: Because I was just curious if anyone wants to go to this little get together tomorrow night we got invited to.

Deacon: No. The fighting is tomorrow night. Same time

Viago: we can just go to that a little later?

Deacon: I don’t want to.

Viago: perhaps we could vote on it anonymously

Vlad: Can’t anonymous vote in a text

Viago: then perhaps a flat meeting :)

Deacon: Viago do u go to every single dumb event u receive a shitty paper invite for

Vlad: Yes he does.

Viago: I feel badly when someone went to all the trouble to make the invite!

Deacon: Then go by yourself, the rest of us will all go do useful things that night

Vlad: No, there have been strange things happening as of late. No one shall go anywhere alone at night

Deacon: OH right I forgot u are now mayor of Wellington and can impose curfews

Deacon: Im going where I want. U and Viago can go to the tea party

Nick: I want to go to the tea party too

Nick: I mean the

Nick: shit whatever it is

Vlad: then it’s settled

Deacon: What’s settled?

Vlad: We’re all going because you can’t be out and about by yourself

Deacon: WHY NOT!!!

Vlad: Because the last time you went out by yourself you punched a bunch of americans in the face in front of a crowd of people in the basement

Deacon: And paid the bills!!!!!

Vlad: You’re coming with us first and that’s final.

Deacon: FUCK U LOSERS

Viago: Language, please

Vlad: Be ready to go by 7:45

Viago: Thank you, Vladislav

Nick: wat r u guys wearing?

Vlad: I was thinking my black trench coat

Nick: bud I got you a new leather jacket

Vlad: Yes I can wear that with my leather vest

Nick: N o u can’t do that

Vlad: why not? It matches

Nick: I’ll come find u we’ll talk about it

Viago: Wait, there is still more to have a meeting about.

Vlad: Such as?

Viago: Whose turn is it to clean the toilets?

Viago: Hello?

Viago: Guys?

-*-*-

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’ve had blood ON TAP for years!”

“Deacon, man, they must have just run out,” If it was any other buddy of Nick’s, he would have guided the guy away with a firm but friendly hand on the shoulder – once you started yelling at the bartender, it was time to back away. But Deacon was… Deacon. And would likely not respond well to touch. “Let’s just… dunno, get blood on our way to the club?”

“Run out… get blood on the way…” Deacon still kept his narrowed eyes on the unfamiliar, tired-looking guy behind the bar. He was leaning so far over the bar, he was on his tiptoes. “What kind of bar for the undead are you running here?”

“I told you, we’re under new management.”

“Under new management…” Deacon was at his distinct level of simmering anger that prevented him from being able to say anything new, just repeat what was said in a threatening tone. Finally, he muttered something about fucking the bartender’s mother and pushed himself back toward the table. He growled to Nick, “I’m telling you. This place is not what it used to be. This entire city, for that matter.”

Nick wasn’t entirely sure what Deacon meant, as per usual, but felt content just being talked to in such a conspiratorial tone. Wellington had taken a slight shift toward gentrification, he noticed – the nicer parts of town got nicer and bigger, and the nastier parts got worse. But wouldn’t someone like Deacon prefer it that way, more ownership over his own dirty corners of the world? “I… guess.”

“You guess? You know! You see! Even the people here are different. Look at this clown over there, in a fucking—what is it—velvet blazer with patches on the elbow? A turtleneck? Is he a professor of being a dipshit? Get out of my bar!”

As if he could hear from all the way across the bar, the man Deacon was talking about caught Nick’s eye. A Cheshire cat grin suddenly spread across almost the entirety of his face, forming crow’s feet on his tanned face.

Deacon bared his teeth. “Oh fuck, he’s coming toward us. Let’s go back to the table. Faster.”

Nick paused when the guy waved at them, with a large hand full of rings. “I think he knows us or somethin, man.”

“Impossible. I do not know snake oil salesmen with stupid square glasses like that.” Deacon’s tone was blasé but he scurried back to the table like a determined mouse trying to get to the end of a maze.

At their corner booth, Viago and Vladislav were deep in conversation over something serious, as usual for the past few weeks. Their foreheads leaned in and angled toward each other in a way that reminded Nick of something he couldn’t quite think of yet. But when Deacon quickly slid in next to Vladislav and looked over his shoulder, Vladislav wasted no time turning away from Viago and muttering, “Deacon, what did you do now?”

“Nothing, I did nothing,” he said in that tone indicating he did something. “That man is following us.”

“Why is he doing that?”

“He must have heard me make fun of his clothes, but can you blame me? Look at him!”

They all turned to look. After taking a second look, Nick thought actually he looked pretty stylish. Far be it from him to disagree with Deacon, but, “Is that sweater Rag & Bone?”

“You speak in gibberish, Nick. I don’t know how he heard me. Maybe is he one of those Slender Men who visited town a while ago. They are quick and mysterious.”

“I believe they prefer forests,” Viago said, eyes still forward. “I must know where this man gets his outfits tailored.”

When this guy and his slicked back silver hair came up to their table, everyone was too busy staring at his outfit to say anything. Everyone except Vladislav, who didn’t care much for that kind of thing. “Greetings. Can I help you?”

His grin widened impossibly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, friends of the night! What a pleasure to finally meet the people I’ve been hearing so much about through the grapevine, and not having to just peer at you as little handsome blurs through a tiny screen on my phone.” With his free hand, the one not sloshing an amber scotch around one perfectly even cube of ice, he tried to draw out a little square symbol in the air, as if that was necessary to complete the visual. “My name is Mr. Grand, owner of Grand Properties, and such, but you can call me Mr. G. if you’d prefer. I know I would, just to, you know, sort of skip over all the formalities.”

“I don’t mind formalities myself!” Viago remembered himself and stood up to shake his hand. “Hello, I’m Viago, and these are my flatmates and very good friends Vladislav, Deacon, and Nick.”

Mr. G. held Viago’s hand, his long fingers traveling up to clutch him by the wrist. Nick always considered Viago relatively tall, and this strange new man had to lean down a bit to peer into Viago’s eyes. “What did you say your name was? Viago? Vi. A. Go. Ahhh.” He seemed to be testing out how the syllables sounded in his mouth. “You look exceedingly familiar, but I just can’t put my finger on how. One of those faces, I suppose.” Now he smiled again, that eerily calm grin, professionally whitened teeth taking over his face to crinkle his eyes once again. Nick wasn’t sure what it was that was scaring him about the smile, but it made him want to reach out and wrench Viago free right away. “We must have known each other in another life. On another planet. Are you in the film industry?” He finally let go of Viago’s wrist to wave the notion away. “Couldn’t be. Not out here. I’ll figure it out at some point, I’m sure. When I least expect it.”

He pulled up a chair from out of nowhere to sit at the open end of their table. Deacon eyed the chair like he couldn’t have wanted it there any less. Speaking with zero interest in his voice, he said, “You are in film industry then?”

“Me? No. I admire it greatly, though.”

“Then what is Grand Properties?”

“It’s sort of a catch-all, if you will, for a few business ventures I’ve taken on. One of them is running a venue I understand you all have become, uh, very familiar with as of late.” He took off his glasses to polish them off as he spoke quickly. “See, you’ll have to mind my manners, that’s why I didn’t bother asking what it is you do for a living yet. I happen to know this very well already.”

“What is it exactly you do?”

“What do I do? Well, in short, whatever, whatever I would like!” He didn’t smile now, but his eyes danced. “That’s the glory of retirement. You finally get to figure out what you would like to do. And I finally have time to try all of it. I quickly discovered my hobbies—cooking, hunting, organizing charity events… I even went on a little archaelogy _excursion_ , if you will. But the caves and the rocks and the wildlife—it was a bit dangerous for me. Those things, those things of nature, I can’t seem to connect with it the way I can people, so I always felt a little off balance, a little off kilter, a little…” Now he waved his hand about, as if they were to be able to translate. “My travels brought me here eventually. And as I traveled, I thought, what could I do to observe people, to be surrounded by the most fascinating people I could possibly imagine, and how can I engage them in a way that satisfies all of my interests? It just so happened then—kismet!—I stumbled upon an abandoned storefront, and something about it just spoke to me. I was in the midst of gutting it to be remodeled for a little craft project my wife was interested in. My beautiful young wife—she’s very good with the gadgets and the doodads and knowing what people want. But anyhow, it was being remodeled, it was empty, and I saw a group of men in front of a pub. They were fixing to fight, I could tell from their body language. Something instinctual guided me, and I stepped in—‘Yoohoo! Gentlemen! What if I told you there was a way for you to get that aggression out without the danger of a policeman spotting you? All the release with none of the parole violations!’ And I led them into the store. And wouldn’t you know it? I came back to the same spot a week later, and there were the same men, in front of the same pub. Waiting for me. Wanting a repeat performance.” He paused to scan all eight eyes in front of him. “And the other, dare I say, equally interesting thing… is that I wanted the same thing. Just to watch, and guide, and facilitate. That’s all.”

Deacon had been leaning forward, nearly losing the balance of his head on his hands. Now he put his head down on the table. “I don’t know what this has to do with us.”

“Excuse him,” Viago said quickly. “He’s tired. He gets this way.”

“No need to apologize, Viago. In fact, I apologize to Deacon.” He gestured to Deacon, a smile spreading across his face. “I love how blunt he is. There’s no one like him, that’s for sure. Let me speed things along. Long story short, this club grew. Soon they were there every night, ten-plus men each time, new men added to the roster frequently. I couldn’t keep it to just the store. Lucky for me, there are many buildings emptying out in Wellington. Lots of places to hide.”

On that last sentence, he made eye contact with Nick, who wanted so badly to look away, his face felt like it was burning.

“That little former nightclub you boys have found yourself in was venue number four. Arguably the most successful. And it’s pulling ahead farther and farther each night—in terms of capacity, that is-- now that you all are on the scene. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“You have eyes everywhere, huh?” Deacon pushed his head back up. “Is that your point? If it is meant to be intimidating, guess what—you have told me nothing so far that I could not find on the Google.”

“The Google!” Grand tilted his head back to belly laugh. “Deacon, where have you been all my life? Such a funny fellow. But you bring up a good point. I’m not trying to intimidate you, my goodness, why would I want to do that? I just want to make you boys aware of the fact that you’re part of something very big. Very powerful. Budding stars, if you will. In fact, Deacon, if you will indulge me—put your head down on the table one more time.”

Grand put his own ear to the table, carefully shifting his glass a foot toward the center of the table. When the others just stared at him, he gestured to them to join him. Nick went first (kicking himself mentally when he saw no one else did), folding his long neck down to the table. Viago watched Nick, then was next to obey, and Vladislav followed. Finally, Deacon muttered, “Stupid,” but also put his forehead to the table.

Grand spoke to them from the tabletop. “Do you hear that? In the basement?”

“No,” Deacon lied.

“Ah, ah. Give it a moment. I know you can hear it. You boys have many special skills.”

Vladislav shifted his head up from the table. “How many people are down there?”

“That group is about twenty total, five or six or seven fighters. Never much more. But it’ll grow soon. I have faith. My wife—the crafter—she will get us some more clients in there shortly. She’s good with engagement like that. She’s also a dancer. What _can’t_ she do?” He sipped his scotch, then looked up at them with childish glee, “Any of you fellas have a special lady?”

Deacon snorted and looked down at his phone. He started scrolling through some old messages as he said, “Still do not know what this has to do with me.” Only at that point did Nick realize he was the only one with his head on the table. He kind of wanted to keep it there for some reason. It felt like it was out of some imaginary line of fire.

“It doesn’t surprise me, Mr. Brucke, that you’re getting bored, so I’ll skip right to the point. I’m planning to bring my franchise to a whole new level. A whole new plane of existence, in a way. Just like you. For people who are on a different plane of life. The afterlife, to be specific.”

“That sounds incredibly interesting!” To someone who didn’t know Viago, they would probably think his eager hand clap and wide smile were of genuine interest, but Nick sensed in the up-ticked octave of his voice and his stiffer-than-ever posture that this lie was desperate: “Too bad that we are not people like that. I have heard stories. Yes. Wellington is not the same as it was. But this is all just a fun sort of way of life for us, you know, a way to pretend to be.” He cleared his throat and started to push himself up, gesturing for the others to do the same. “We are very sorry for having wasted your time in any way and you let us know how that goes and we will have tea together some time soon.”

“Viago, my friend, there’s nothing to be scared of. And there’s nothing to hide. I found, through a rather reliable source, some footage of you gentlemen. In a very exciting little featurette. A documentary. Sponsored by the New Zealand Documentary Board, I believe?”

There was a brief silence. Vladislav shifted forward, peering up from under his brow. It gave Nick shivers, but Mr. G seemed unaffected. “Who gave you that footage?” Vladislav demanded.

“Doesn’t matter!” Deacon shot up, nearly knocking over the table on his way out of the booth. “Now I know he’s lying. I used hypnotism at the end of that footage. Anyone who saw it would have been hypnotized into forgetting. I used everything I had for that trick!”

Mr. G.’s smile had not shifted a bit, not revealed a single extra tooth, but it somehow had taken on an entirely new, more sinister vibe. “I don’t doubt your skill, not for a second. But I believe it was in that very same little film that one of you said—now what was it, ah, yes, uh—in order for hypnotism to work, you have to want to be hypnotized?” He gestured across the table. “Why would I want that? Why would I want to forget any of you?”

“Oh look!” Viago tapped his watch so hard Nick wondered if it would crack. “At! The time! We must go. We have an appointment, you see. All of us. Just a social appointment, nothing serious. But we have to go. Right now.”

Mr. G. looked at his own Rolex. “Oh, of course, where are my manners, I’ve kept you forever! You four will probably need to get back home, safe from the sunlight soon, I presume?”

“No, I don’t know what time it is,” Deacon said. “Does not matter! I just feel like doing other things now.”

He lightly clapped his hands in Deacon’s direction a couple times, laughing. “This is a man with no filter, I see! You see it often in these younger vampires. I admire that so much. There’s much to admire about you, Deacon, actually.”

Deacon’s lip curled. “’Actually’?”

“You do have a point. So I’ll get to mine. Gentlemen, I’m having the time of my life watch you take on these humans, but I think you might find more of a challenge with some creatures I’ve been keeping. You see, they’re a little more of the magical sort themselves, and I’ve taken them into a special training program to get them nice and focused on these little fights. I’ve built up quite the inner circle of magical beings, or those with a strong connection to that world, because I’m seeking a very special thing.” He took a pause to smile at the vampires and even reach out a kind, warm hand to touch Nick’s shoulder. Nick wanted to cringe away but something told him this was a bad idea. He at least saw Vladislav’s eyes track the hand on his shoulder, and this gave him the faintest sense of protection. “Obviously, I find a great deal of special things all the time. And immortality in particular has long fascinated me. But once I found that, I thought, what if there was even more to discover. What if it were retroactive?”

Now he gestured to them with open hands, waiting for someone to help him go on. After a few seconds, Nick had a feeling – retroactive immortality? Did he mean making people younger? What did that have to do with them? He had so many questions, but Nick realized that the other three weren’t saying anything, so he probably shouldn’t either.

As if reading his mind, Mr. G. said, “I’m not talking about a fountain of youth situation, I’m more talking about, well, bringing someone back from the grave.”

“You can—just bring—how far?” Nick said. His words weren’t coming. Because he didn’t know even know what to ask. Where to start. Deacon kicked his leg under the table. He didn’t care.

“What’s that now, Nick?”

“How far back can you… revive someone?”

“Oh well, no promises or details yet. I’m still investigating. But let’s just say I have some very promising prospects. In particular, a healer I invited who’s coming all the way from Staten Island, has already been able to do it, he claims. Of course, it’s only with a human, a familiar if I heard correctly, but we’ll see what other tricks he has up his sleeve.” For this next bit, he took obvious care to drop his voice down and move his well-trimmed eyebrows into a sad position. “If you come participate in this invitation-only fights, I intend on paying you gentlemen handsomely, but I offer the networking aspect in particular just because it’s my understanding that you’ve experienced some recent losses.”

Nick wanted to know how he knew that, but Deacon said, “We did not. Thank you bye bye.” He turned away from the table. “I’m going now. There’s shows I want to watch. And things to do. Anything except this bullshit.”

Unfazed, Mr. G. reached out to shake his hand, his long tan fingers in vivid contrast with Deacon’s ghostly white skin. “Deacon, I appreciate your time, and I hope you’ll consider my offer. I’d love to keep networking with you.”

Deacon yanked his hand away. “Whatever.”

“I apologize for him,” Viago said, but lifted up his coattails to start scooting out the way Deacon left. “Though I do agree it’s time to get home.”

Mr. G. smiled and looked Viago up and down as he got out of the booth. It didn’t strike Nick as sexual, but it struck him somehow. Between those looks, and the noises downstairs, and the immortality thing, and the entire world, his head was buzzing, and he felt beyond relieved to be leaving.

Before Vlad started to follow them out, Mr. G. held his hand and said something quietly to him. Nick wanted to ask what it was, but made a note to do it later. They were losing sight of Deacon and Viago and the idea of the four of them getting separated was terrifying.

The sound of shrill barking came from Deacon and Viago’s direction. Vladislav rushed to the door, pulling Nick along with him.

Outside, they were getting barked at by what sounded sort of like a dog, but looked like something Nick hadn’t really seen. It could have been a werewolf, but was too skinny, and wrapped up in some sort of large harness. It was lunging at Deacon and Viago, but Deacon didn’t seem to care. He was yelling at the dog’s owner. Though she was wrapped up tight in a hoodie, the top third of her face obscured, he recognized her quickly – Gina. The girl from the fight club. She was yelling at Deacon too, and it was hard to make out the individual argument, over the cacophony of barking and screaming and the comments of people walking by.

Finally, Nick made out Deacon saying, “But you could have still CALLED, just called to explain that!”

She seemed distracted by pulling the dog away with her entire body, but still shouted back, “I don’t need to explain anything to you! We don’t even really know each other!”

“THAT IS NOT TRUE!”

“Deacon, we’re basically just coworkers! Grow up!”

“Now now…” Mr. G. came outside, making eye contact with only the dog. It stopped barking and started whining. He put one tan hand on its head, tapping it gently with his shiny rings. The dog seemed almost to cringe, but didn’t pull away. He looked up at Gina. “Is this the only time he’s gone out today?”

“Well, YEAH, he’s the biggest pain in the ass of the whole pack, dude.”

“He’s a handful, I understand. Oh, wow, again, where are my manners?” He gestured between the vampires and Gina. “Gentlemen, this is my wife, Gina. Gina, this is Vladislav, Viago, Nick, and Deacon—oh! Never mind, there he goes!” Deacon poofed into a bat and flew away at a speed Nick had never seen a bat move at. Mr. G. laughed. “He has a busy schedule, that one. Oh, never mind, Gina, you know these men from the music shop location! Silly me.”

“Yeah, I do,” she shot Nick a look he couldn’t decipher. “I’ve been lowkey enjoying the vacation, though.”

“She was feeling a little overtired after work recently, so I transferred her to one of the venues out in Auckland, where it’s just getting started, a little less hectic,” Mr. G. explained. “And I certainly wouldn’t complain about having her home more often. But like a true saleswoman, she’s been out and about between shifts looking over prospective venues. She’s got that eye!” He turned back to Gina. “How’s that new harness working out?”

Gina looked down at the huge dog sitting shakily between them. Her face was another mask of emotion Nick had trouble recognizing beyond sad. She caught him staring and turned her back to Nick, facing her husband fully. While they were both looking away, Viago disappeared into his own bat form, in a neat, quiet puff of smoke and wings. She fiddled with the leash and said, “Better, I guess. I’ll work on it more later.”

He turned to the other three again. “We had one dog get loose a few weeks ago. I’m still not sure what happened to him. A great loss. Nothing like that feeling of losing one of your own pack.” The dog whined again, and Mr. G. said, “It sounds like he wants to get home and I’ve really taken up so much of your time tonight. Oh! Where’d Viago run off to?”

Vladislav said, “He cares very much about honoring appointments and such.”

“I appreciate that about him. I appreciate quite a lot about him from what I’ve seen. Big fan.”

Vladislav grabbed Nick’s shoulder with a touch too much force, turning them away to walk down the street. “Thank you, sir, for your offer. We’ll take it into consideration.”

“Have a good night. And goodbye to you too, young Nick!” he called out after them. The last thing Nick heard him say was to Gina. “What a nice young man that one is, that Nick. Handsome as well. Don’t you agree?”

“Wasn’t really looking at him,” she replied.

Vladislav kept a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing them forward at a pace just above what Nick was comfortable keeping up with. Once they turned a corner, not even toward home, Nick considered asking Vladislav to please let up with the pushing, but before he could, Vladislav hissed, “We will not take it into consideration.”

“Take what—” but then he was pushed against a lamp post. His head hit the metal with an unpleasant clunk.

“Do you know this man in any way?”

“What, no, why, why would I—”

“Did you know the documentary made it out into the public?”

“No! I forgot that even happened! I thought when the camera guys died they said they weren’t gonna—”

“What the fuck is he talking about, other ‘special creatures’, ‘our recent losses’, and what the fuck was that dog?”

“I don’t know!” Nick’s voice echoed across the empty street. “I don’t know any more than you. Please. But if you think I do then I’m sorry. Please, can we just…” he wanted to say _Go home,_ but as much as he was petrified of Vladislav in that moment (and to be clear, his knees were shaking a little), he was even more scared of being corrected, being told next that it was not his home.

But instead Vladislav finally let go of his shoulder. “Yes. What the fuck am I—what time is it? We need to leave now. I apologize, that was an overreaction. This man is strange.”

“Yeah. He is.” Nick wanted so badly to leave, but Vladislav seemed to have more to say, so he kept his spine glued to the lamppost. “Real strange.”

Vladislav didn’t seem to hear him, pacing a few feet away. “I didn’t like what he said about Viago just then. What did he mean? BIG FAN? What the hell does that mean? Has he been watching us?”

“Well… they do have cameras there.”

“What?!”

“Remember? There are cameras around the ring. I thought it was so Gina—or whoever I guess—could watch to make sure we didn’t break any rules. No weapons or whatever. But maybe he’s been watching.”

“This is all very bad. And now that infernal documentary is floating around, revealing everything there is to know about vampires. Why the fuck did I ever agree to that.”

“Maybe you needed the money.”

He half-growled, half-hissed, spit flying out in the pale lamp light, and Nick wondered if he was ever going to make it home, but then Vladislav seemed to have a thought. “We can’t go back there. That’s not safe. But we can’t stay in this city now. If he knows, anyone could know. We are in danger now.”

“Where will we go?”

“How the hell should I know?” And he went back to pacing. Nick felt a sight wave of relief when Vlad’s response wasn’t _You are not part of ‘we,’_ but then realized things still weren’t great. Just as he predicted, they wouldn’t stay great for long.

-*-*-

_Oct. 21_

_2017_

_Deacon’s Journal_

  * _I wanted to fight everyone again but viago said no because I was attracting attention_
  * _Well maybe his stupid outfits attract attention, huh!! Ever think of that! Dandy bitch_
  * _But then weird thing happened that made me want to journal_
  * _ONLY THING THAT MADE ME WANT TO JOURNAL because nothing else is worth journaling over_
  * _No other stupid bitches not sending texts or having husbands or whatever dumb shit stupid ass fuck bitches tricking me are worth journaling over_
  * _:( :( :(_



[at this point, if you were reading Deacon’s journal, you would have to go through a few pages worth of shreds where his pen dragged over the paper in angry scratches, storm clouds of ink and particles, and then once they stopped bleeding through to the next page, he started writing again:]

  * _Any way so here was the weird thing_
  * _That man, short with tattoos, from many weeks ago who first led me to this club thing_
  * _He was there and he fought viago_
  * _At the end of the night, last round_
  * _During the fight, they were not doing anything for long_
  * _It had barely begun and all viago did was punch him once_
  * _Because he is bad at this you know_
  * _And then the tattoo guy_
  * _Frank was his name I remember now_
  * _Frank got out a knife!_
  * _And stabbed him once in the wrist_
  * _And then there was all this from the crowd_
  * _All this OH NO BOO THAT’S AGAINST THE RULES NO WEAPONS YOU PUSSY BLA BLA BOO AAAAHH BOO NO WEAPONS_
  * _And he ran away out of the club_
  * _vladislav looked like he was going to run after him, but nick did first_
  * _Now we haven’t seen nick for a few minutes_
  * _no great loss if you ask me!!!!!!_
  * _But no one ever asks me!!!!!!!!!_



[At this point, the rest of the book was shredded. Some time later, Deacon picked up a stray piece of paper big enough to write some more thoughts in, and stuck it in what was left of the binding.]

  * _I thought this was weird_
  * _I was worried maybe it was a stake at first, but he just stabbed him and ran away. Very shiny knife, I remember this. Very shiny_
  * _Pretty cool actually, what I saw of it_
  * _So I went up to viago and I said “hey crazy what happened with that tattooed guy and the knife”_
  * _And viago just said “Yes. That was odd.”_
  * _And then said we should go home._
  * _That was it!_
  * _He didn’t even ask where nick was. He just said “Yes. That was odd.” And then we went home, and he did not tell me to take my feet off the seats once._
  * _But any way we got a lot of money_
  * _That Bret idiot gave us some extra money so we would not tell anyone about the weapon thing_
  * _I want to write about his boss but I need more paper_
  * _:(_



-*-*-

Standing alone in the bathroom, Viago realized he had quite a bit to add to his to-think list. He had so much to think about these days that it would have to go by date. So, October 22nd’s to-think list was filling up awfully quick for an evening that had just begun.

Perhaps number one was: why had he never purchased a first-aid kit for the household? The answer may seem obvious, but now he realized, what if they needed one for guests? Then again, most guests were there to die. Even so, it was the polite thing to do, to offer them a band-aid or some ointment in case they wanted to address the bleeding while they awaited doom.

If that was number one, then number two was: why did they have so many medical instruments and ancient medications, none of them useful?

He was surrounded by little glass bottles he lined up on the edge of the bathtub, labeled as anything from fever tonic to laudanum, all of them empty or nearly empty and stained. The sink held a number of tools, including an arrow remover and a rusted ice pick.

Number three was that surely an eBay sale or (even better!) a craft project was in store for these items. Number three-point-five was that there was no time for it that day.

Number four was something about the idea that even if he had the right first aid materials, he probably wouldn’t know what to do with them. Which was not great. Because number five was that the cut on his wrist from fighting was starting to sting to a distracting degree.

He was curious, of course, about why it was taking so long to heal. He must have been overdue for a feeding. Vladislav and Deacon had more of an eye for easy opportunities to feed while they were out and about, and Viago was known to forget until he had hunger pangs, which always seemed to wane his powers a bit. Still… this much? Enough to halt the healing entirely?

Someone knocked at the bathroom door. “Oh! Dear! One moment please!” Speak of the devils. He wondered if one of them would feel up to an outing that night, a quick dinner of the dumbest, most exposed mortals. He ran around throwing things back into the cabinet (well, not _throwing_ , rather putting back in order by size from left to right, but he was doing it quickly). He grabbed for the suit jacket he threw off to explore the bathroom, tugging it on just in time.

Nick was the one at the door. Viago gave silent thanks to some invisible force below it was Nick – and Viago hoped and prayed this feeling was not just because Nick was young and easy to manipulate, but more about the fact that Nick was his friend. Yes. Certainly that.

He was wearing a structured jacket with all sorts of zippers and buttons, obviously a Deacon hand-me-down, but had his hands protectively up at his neck like he itched for a hoodie or something else to pull over his face. “Hey. Viago. Bud. Um… are you okay?”

“Yes. Of course. Why? Can I help you?”

Nick stared at him for a second, eyes wide. After a few seconds of intense deliberation unusual for Nick, he reached out and fixed Viago’s crooked lapel.

“Oh. Thank you. I didn’t catch that.”

Worry crossed Nick’s eyes. “Know what… I’ll come by in a bit. You’re doing—I dunno. Whatever. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nicholas! Don’t go! I am more than ready to listen!” Viago hadn’t been aware he looked _that_ disheveled and silently cursed himself for it, vowing to be near a second death before making that mistake again.

“Nah, you’re good, I’ll go ask someone else, you listened to me enough. Honestly.”

Nick was trying to turn away from him, Viago’s hand wrenching the fabric on his bicep. Viago let go, not even realizing he was holding on so tight until he saw the fabric wrinkle desperately. “You can come to me as often as you’d like. I mean that. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to talk Vladislav off of whatever ledges The Beast drove him to.”

Nick considered this, readjusting his jacket to smooth out the winkles and pop the collar as high as it could go. “Yeah? That’s so weird to think about. Him… talking about his feelings.”

“You should see his poetry.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“See? You are so bright! Learning so quickly! Now what do you need?”

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but… sometimes I need a lot of blood to feel full.”

 _Only a complete fucking moron would not have noticed_ , Viago figured, and so he wondered if Vladislav and Deacon had noticed. Probably not. “Just a bit, yeah.”

“Wondering if you had any advice for how to deal with that. ‘Cause it’s starting to get rough needing to find lots of blood everywhere all the time.”

“Well, I’m not really the best to talk to, because as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not the hungriest gentleman I know. You know who would be… um… good to…” Viago trailed off, suddenly aware of perhaps a too-casual approach to this issue. The last time they were casual about it, they were having a great time together, celebrating a Halloween party with a bunch of werewolves. And Kathryn. All together under one roof. Nearly three years ago. “Nick, out of curiosity, what do you mean by things getting rough? As rough as they did… that one Halloween?”

“It’s. Um. Yep. It’s rough. I feel like I drink something, and it just goes down a drain or somethin. Like it doesn’t go in my body. Like I just piss it out right away. Like when you’re trying to pass a drug test and you chug water and go on the elliptical for hours. Thing is, I’m not pissing.”

Nick always did have a way with words, in his own special fashion. Viago futzed with his sleeves, careful to avoid the sensitive spot on his wrist. “Maybe you need to… find _better_ blood somehow? Stop with all the frozen stuff?” He paused to clear his throat and scan his brain for social media, internet, hashtags, some way to speak to Nick. So what if they were three hundred years apart – Viago was not willing to let this friend go just due to culture shock. “Try organic, as they say? A cleanse? Perhaps someone would be willing to take a B12 supplement before you bite them?”

Nick looked like he was listening, scanning Viago’s eyes with unblinking intensity. But when he spoke, he didn’t address what Viago said. Instead, his eyes still straight ahead, he said, “I just came back from having, um, a, someone, and it’s like it didn’t even—I felt just the same as when I started. I feel like I’ll eat anyone. I’m starting to think… even vampires look… kinda good, maybe.”

Viago nodded, feeling his snagglefang poking out of his smile. For what must have been the thousandth time in life, he cursed his inability to look as serious as he felt. “That’s… unusual. Now, when you say vampires are starting to look good, do you mean, um, me, for example?”

“No, not you—”

“Oh good!—”

“You wear all those, you know, scarves and stuff around your neck. Hides it real well.”

“Ah,” Viago resisted the sudden urge to reach up and make sure his buttons were done all the way up to the top.

That answer clearly didn’t do Nick any good. When he looked up at Viago, his eyebrows were furrowed so severely it looked painful. “Did you ever hear about it in all the years you been a vampire? Anything like it?”

“No, not that I know of. To be honest, even us getting some sort of satisfaction out of drinking werewolves was news to me. You know, Vladislav has been around for so much longer, if we just ask—”

“No!” Nick reached up and tugged at the edge of Viago’s robe. “Please! Not him! And not Deacon! You know they’re not going to want me around. I don’t want to end up alone again.”

The way he clutched the fabric wasn’t aggressive, just desperate. Like a little kid. And when Viago reached up to pat Nick’s bony hand, and felt it shake just a bit, he knew in his dead heart he was going to whatever the younger vampire asked.

“Oh… I hate secrets…” Viago looked around the room, over Nick’s shoulder, down the hallway. “When Vladislav and Deacon were keeping secrets from me, it was really the worst feeling.”

“I’m _sorry_ I just don’t know what the fuck else to do!”

“I may have an idea. Let’s try this, just for argument’s sake—there’s a blood donation truck that pulls up in front of the church over by that empty lot and that forested area, you know, one suburb north?”

“Okay—”

“They have lots of bags of blood. Vladislav and I went there a few weeks ago. There’s a young man who works in it, weak and good-looking like a little pastry. Hypnotize him to get in and get him to drive the truck somewhere hidden. Drink him completely and then start drinking what’s in the truck. Until you don’t feel full anymore. Then at least we’ll know how much you need until we figure out what the problem is.”

“What if the answer’s _a lot_?”

“We can get you _a lot_ if we work as a team. So go find out exactly how much you need, then I’ll tell the others you need that much and we will all work to help you. They don’t need to know what the lead up is. What you told me tonight about your, um, very specific craving -- that can remain between us.”

“Promise?”

Viago remembered Nick in his quiet, sickly desperation, curled up in the coffeeshop cabinets just weeks before. He looked better now – his skin tone was less gray, his voice was clearer, even his hair was growing out nicely – but his eyes had the same exact fear as that night. Perhaps it never left.

Viago held up his right pinky. “I promise.”

Nick smiled and didn’t hesitate to lock pinkies, but he looked down at the ground as he held on. “Was it this hard for you in the beginning?”

“I don’t know if it is ever easy. But it’s nice knowing you’ll live through it, ya? We can live through nearly anything.”

“I guess.” With his other hand, Nick popped his collar up. Even without a hoodie, he looked almost the exact same as he did when he was hiding. He looked up at Viago again over their locked pinkies. “You won’t tell them where I am?”

Eight thousand things Viago wanted to say, and the top among them,

_I won’t let them do anything wicked to you._

But he knew he couldn’t promise this, so he just said, “No. I won’t tell. Hurry back.”

Nick nodded and squeezed their hands together tightly once before heading out.

Viago waited, using all the strength he could muster to stay upright. As soon as he heard the front door shut, he clutched his wrist and hissed with all his might (which was reduced to a countertenor whisper), kneeling on the ground. His wrist felt like it was on fire. When Nick had squeezed their hands together, it hurt so badly his vision blurred.

 _What in the world?_ He sat back on the floor and rolled the sleeve up, grunting in pain again when the fabric caught on his wound. It took him a second to realize what he was looking at. Then he remembered, once again. That fucking fight. That dumb small man. That dumb small knife.

 _Why hasn’t this healed?_ He tried to scan his memories for all the times it took a wound a long time to heal, but he couldn’t remember. His head felt a little foggy. He figured maybe he should go drink some blood, whatever he could get his hands on, then go out to feed on a whole human right away, but standing up didn’t sound appealing at the moment.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?” Deacon appeared in the doorway, looking at Viago, but his hands were knitting something or other at impressive speed. He wore flannel pajama pants, big knitted socks, and one of his oldest, moth-eaten sweaters. It was a rather adorable get-up but his pale eyes looked tired and grim.

Otherwise, Deacon looked the same as he usually did, long before his little crush on the fight club desk girl developed. Somehow, this made Viago feel a bit disappointed. It was nice for a while to see Deacon care about something other than looking cool. Or at least, looking cool for a new reason other than just being The Coolest Vampire in the Household (which was a title no one else was competing for). “I just… I don’t know. Felt like a sit-down.”

“On the _floor?_ You? With the dust bunnies and shit?”

“I’m, um… well…” Viago was pretty sure he covered his wound just in time when Deacon appeared, but wasn’t sure, and not being able to string a sentence together wasn’t going to help. “I was eventually going to sweep and just wanted to see… how much I needed… to sweep. Yes.”

“Do you ever have any fun that isn’t cleaning?”

“That’s not fair. I read many books.”

“Where did Nick go?”

“I sent him out on some errands.”

“Like what?”

“… Do you want to watch _The Voice?_ ”

“Yes.”

Viago silently said a few German prayers to the devil below that Deacon was the way he was. “Go turn the TV on and I’ll be out there in a moment.”

Deacon had only turned around when he said, over the still-constant click-clacking of his knitting needles, “Viago, have you ever been—fuck, what are they calling it now—a ghost-it?”

Oh great, now was he hearing things? “A what now?”

“A ghost-it. They kept saying it on that show I like on the MTV channel, about catfishes.”

“What is… you watch fishing…?”

“I think it’s like, when you were in a relationship with someone and they stop talking to you. They will not even answer your calls or messages. Then you are ghost-it. They ghost-it-ed you.”

“I see. I suppose that happened to me, all those years back, with Kathryn… in a way. She stopped answering my letters, but she did tell me she needed to first. I still sent her some letters for a little while but of course… she didn’t reply. Like she said she wouldn’t.”

“Women are bitches.”

“We are monsters.”

The clicking stopped for a few seconds. Then continued, fading out as Deacon walked down the hall toward the living room.

Viago waited until he heard the sound of the TV turning on to push himself up. He felt a little better than before. He felt somehow at the same time that everything would work out okay, but that he hoped he didn’t have to make conversation with Vladislav that night. He didn’t remember hoping for such a thing the entire time he lived there.


End file.
